LAYLA
I pushed through the restroom door like it might save me. My heels struck tile with too much noise, each step sharp enough to echo. The door slammed behind me and I winced at the sound before fumbling for the flimsy latch. It clicked into place, small and sad and useless.
My hands were shaking.
So was everything else.
I staggered to the nearest sink and braced myself against the porcelain, palms flat, fingers spread. The metal was cold. I was colder. My heart was a war drum in my ribs, beating against bone like it could crack its way out.
How is this real?
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in New York. Not in that office.
Khurzog.
Not a dream. Not a memory.
Real.
Real.
The word pulsed behind my eyes, setting every nerve on fire. My mouth still tingled from almost saying too much — from the heat between us in that god-awful office — and I hated myself for feeling anything but disgust.
But my body…
God..
My body remembered.
Chicago.
His eyes glowing in the dark — honey-gold and hungry.
The heat of his breath on my collarbone.
The press of his chest over mine, heavy and solid and safe in a way that still made me sick with want.
One night. That was all. That’s all it was ever supposed to be.
I’d told myself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t count. That undercover meant unreal.
But it hadn’t been unreal.
I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped the edge of the sink harder, trying to root myself in something, anything. But even the porcelain felt hot beneath my fingers. The air was too close. Too thick.
It’s a mistake.
He’s just a bodyguard.
He can’t be here.
It’s just… some sick nightmare.
But I’d dreamed about him too many times to believe that. And none of the dreams had ever felt like this.
This wasn’t lust curling in the shadows or memory twisted into fantasy.
The way he’d looked at me — god, the way he looked at me — like I was something that belonged to him.
I caught sight of myself in the cracked mirror above the sink.
Eyes wide.
Color too high in my cheeks.
I looked wrecked. And not just from stress. Not just from him. From me. From the part of me that was still tethered to a night I’d spent six months trying to forget — and failing.
A spark snapped in the mirror’s corner — faint blue lightning crackling against the silvered glass. My magic twitching. Leaking.
“Crap,” I muttered, and splashed cold water over my face, shaking the drops off my fingers. The scent of lemon oil rose — a scent I’d chosen because it covered the smell of smoke and blood and orc heat.
It wasn’t working.
Nothing was working.
The latch clicked behind me.
I froze.
The door creaked open, soft and slow — like a breath being taken.
My stomach dropped.
No.
I spun around, too fast, heart slamming against my ribs. The latch should’ve held. It should’ve held.
But he was already inside.
Massive and solid and silent, filling the room. Everything I’d been trying to escape.
I took one step back and hit the sink. My mouth opened, ready to shout, to scream, to stop this —
But he was already moving.
How the hell did he —?!
Stupid question.
He hadn’t even seen the latch. Or maybe he had, and it didn’t matter. Orc instincts didn’t work the way ours did. He didn’t think in terms of permission. Not when I was standing in front of him and he wanted me.
His tail curled once behind him, twitching low. His eyes —
Saints.
His eyes were all black at the edges, irises narrowed to molten rings. Hunger.
I opened my mouth — to say stop, to say what are you doing, to scream if I had to — but he was already there.
His hand found my waist.
And then his mouth was on mine.
Crashing. Claiming. Starved.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was need carved into muscle and breath. His other hand braced behind me on the sink — boxing me in, caging me like I was prey he’d finally caught.
I gasped, shocked, my palms rising to shove him back — but too slow. Too weak. I touched his chest, felt the heat through his shirt, and it scorched. My fingers twitched, curled.
My body betrayed me instantly.
My breath stuttered. Heat pooled between my ribs. My knees softened.
And god — my magic sang.
The moment his lips crushed mine, it woke — a spark at the base of my spine, licking up my throat, humming in my wrists like a live wire. I felt it rise in me the way lightning lives in a storm — inevitable and loud.
I opened my mouth — not to speak, but because instinct remembered him. Because my body had already surrendered once and couldn’t pretend to forget.
He tasted the same.
Salt. Smoke. Iron.
Home, some traitor part of me whispered.
This isn’t happening.
Stop.
Please stop.
Why does it feel like oxygen?
His hand slid higher on my back, pulling me tighter, his mouth devouring like it was his first breath in weeks. My spine arched. I hated the sound I made — the soft, startled breath that wasn’t no.
Flash.
His breath against my collarbone.
The way he’d dragged his teeth over my skin.
That moment — in the dark, in Chicago — when I thought this can’t be happening and wanted it anyway.
It was the same now.
My palm connected with his cheek before I even knew I’d moved.
My hand burned, the sting a bright, clarifying pain. He didn’t even flinch. His head turned a fraction with the force, but those dark-rimmed, golden eyes just held mine, unwavering. The only sign he’d felt it at all was the subtle, dangerous twitch of a muscle along his jaw.
I was never yours. The words screamed in my head, a desperate defense. But my traitorous mouth, still tingling from his kiss, formed different ones. My voice was low, icy, a stark contrast to the fire in my veins. “You don’t get to claim me like I’m still yours.”
The word hung between us, toxic and undeniable. Still. I heard it the moment it left my lips, a catastrophic admission that turned my stomach. I wanted to claw it back from the air.
I never was, I screamed at myself. I was just a prize. A night’s entertainment for the champion of the pit.
He was still for a moment, a mountain assessing the tremor of a single pebble. Then, a low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t a growl of anger, but something deeper, more disbelieving. He took a single step forward, not a threat, but an undeniable presence that forced me to look up — to truly see him.
My training kicked in, a cold splash of reality. Observe. Assess. His shoulders were set, not with aggression, but with a weary tension. The corded muscles in his neck were tight, a strain that spoke of months, not minutes. His hands — those brutal, capable hands that had just held me with such terrifying possessiveness — were loose at his sides, fingers slightly curled. Not preparing to grab, but… waiting.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, forcing strength into my voice, layering my professional detachment over the personal chaos. “You can’t be here. This — this is insane. You were supposed to be in Chicago. You were —”
“Searching.” His voice was a rasp of gravel and heartbreak, so raw it seemed to scrape against my skin. “For you.”
The two words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My detective’s mind, always working, pieced it together. The weariness in his posture wasn’t from today. It was the deep, bone-deep fatigue of a long, fruitless hunt.
He took another step, and the space between us crackled.
“I tore that city apart looking for you. Every back alley, every name, every whisper.” His golden-irised eyes pinned me. “They all knew, the handlers in the Bureau. And none of them told me.”
My heart was a war drum again, frantic and wild.
“I was looking for you in every club in Chicago,” he continued, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, more devastating. “I haven’t slept right. Haven’t breathed without tasting you.” He leaned in, just slightly, and the scent of him — smoke, iron, pure orc male — washed over me. “You felt it too.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, and my entire body thrummed in agreement. My magic — that treacherous, living thing inside me — sparked in response, a faint blue shimmer I was terrified he could see it.
I clutched at my anger, my fear, wrapping them around me.
“I felt something, sure. Regret. Shame. The heat that gets a girl killed if it ever gets out.” I gestured sharply between us, the movement jerky. “You think I can afford this? I’m a witch. I’m a woman. I’m human. You walking into my life is a death sentence.”
I straightened my spine, summoning every ounce of authority I had left.
“Touch me again, and I report you. I swear, I’ll drag you in front of Vance and every ouncil rep in this city. And they’ll toss you back over the river faster than you can say ‘misconduct.’”
For a long moment, he just looked at me. His tail, which had been still, gave one slow, thoughtful curl. His gaze traveled over my face, reading the lie I was shouting, seeing right through to the woman shaking beneath it.
His voice was quieter when he spoke, but it held an iron certainty that was somehow more frightening than a shout.
“Go ahead. Report me. Lie to them. Lie to yourself.” He took the final step, and he was there again — his heat surrounding me, his presence an absolute reality I couldn’t escape. “But you and I both know the truth.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” my words barely a whisper.
A low, possessive growl vibrated through him.
“I know how you sounded under me.”
The memory hit like a physical touch, and I felt my knees weaken.
“I know how your magic sparks when I touch you. I know you didn’t want me to stop. Not then.” His eyes dropped to my lips. “Not now.”
Desperation, cold and sharp, clawed at me. I needed a weapon, any weapon, to shatter this unbearable intimacy. The words left my mouth before I could stop them, a calculated, cruel strike aimed at his heart.
“I have a boyfriend.”
The effect was immediate and absolute. He went perfectly, utterly still. The air in the room seemed to solidify. His eyes, which had been pools of molten hunger, iced over. The silence stretched taut and painful.
Then, a low rumble, like thunder under gravel. “So?”
The single word was a challenge. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that feathered against my ear, raising every hair on my neck.
“He fucks you like I did?”
I flinched, the vulgarity a slap. Rage, hot and bright, bloomed in my chest — a welcome substitute for the wanton heat.
His gaze was relentless, stripping me bare.
“Does he spark your magic?” he murmured, his breath warm on my skin. “Does he know what you taste like when your power flares?” His eyes found mine again, burning with that possessive fire. “Or does he just kiss you and you feel no spark at all?”
The image of my kind, gentle, thoroughly human boyfriend surfaced in my mind — a man who did treat me like something precious and fragile — and it made Khurzog’s raw, primal claim feel all the more terrifyingly addictive. I shoved the comparison away, locking it down deep.
My voice, when I found it, was cold and measured — the voice of Detective Layla Peterson, not the shattered woman from Chicago. “You should ask for a transfer. Or I will.”
I moved then, pushing away from the sink, my shoulder brushing against the solid wall of his chest as I passed. A jolt, like live voltage, shot through me at the contact. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I focused on the door, my hand reaching for the handle, my head high, my posture a masterpiece of forced control. The door jerked open under my hand.
His voice followed me, low and certain, a promise and a threat woven together.
“You can’t run, little witch.”
A beat of silence that felt like a lifetime.
“Not from your own magic.”
I tore the door open like it might save me.
The hallway outside was too bright. Every overhead light burned like judgment.
My pulse roared in my ears. My fingers tingled — sparks leaking between them. I clenched my hands into fists to hide the glow, but it wasn’t just my magic that betrayed me. It was everything. The flush in my cheeks. The way my knees still didn’t feel steady. The faint smell of smoke and orc heat clinging to my blouse like sweat.
I knew he was behind me.
Didn’t have to look.
Didn’t have to hear him.
I could feel him.
A massive presence hot and steady. He wasn’t chasing. But I knew if I slowed, even for a second, he’d be there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin me.
I took the stairs.
Not because I liked the burn in my thighs or the ache in my calves. Not because it was faster.
Because I wouldn’t survive the elevator.
Not in a box with him. Not with that heat radiating off his skin and my magic still keyed to his breath.
Each step down was a silent chant — control, control, control.
My badge swung with each movement, a sharp reminder of who I was now. What I’d built. What I could still lose.
On the next level, I opened the door that connected the staircase with the main floor.
The bullpen hit me like a slap.
Typewriters clacking. Phones ringing. Smoke curling in lazy loops above half-drunken coffee mugs.
The usual noise. The usual mess.
But every eye felt like it was on me.
Or maybe that was just paranoia.
Maybe I was still vibrating too hard from the kiss. From his voice. From the goddamn smell of him under my skin.
A secretary paused mid-step.
Two junior detectives looked up, then away too fast.
My boots hit the tile like gunshots.
One. Two. Three.
Every step felt like a confession.
What the hell are they seeing?
Is it the flush on my face? The magic in my wake?
Can they smell him on me?
Because I could. I could still feel him — the press of his chest, his mouth, the way my power still hadn’t quieted.
There was a tremor in my fingertips I couldn’t hide.
A hum in my blood I couldn’t kill.
They didn’t need to see the kiss.
They didn’t need to hear the growl in his voice or the heat in mine.
They could smell it.
Magic doesn’t lie. Not to other witches. Not to bloodhounds in badge-form who lived off gossip and instinct.
I pulled my blouse tighter at the collar.
Straightened my spine.
Walked like nothing had happened — like I wasn’t unraveling under my own skin.