“I can’t fucking believe it!”

Brooklyn’s voice cracked through the car like a gunshot as she slammed her heel into the seat in front of her. Bruce startled slightly from the driver’s seat, his hands tightening on the wheel as the car jerked subtly.

“Easy,” Ian murmured from beside her, though he didn’t look up from where his forearms rested lazily on his knees.

“How dare she?!” Brooklyn stormed on, her voice vibrating with fury as she threw herself back into her seat, fists curling into the smooth leather.

There wasn’t much to say. Ian knew the loss stung deeply. Rosalia D’Angelo’s deal had slipped through Brooklyn’s fingers, likely straight into the waiting hands of the Wyndams. Worse still, into the grasp of Gaius Wyndam—a man who embodied everything she despised.

Ian watched her from the corner of his eye, silent. If Gaius was a snake, his son Avalon was its fangs. The two of them had ruined what should have been Brooklyn’s moment to prove her strength—her worth—to both Rosalia and her father. Ian didn’t need to guess how much that failure burned.

“How did Gaius even know about the meeting?” Brooklyn muttered fiercely, her narrowed eyes fixed on the shadowed streets outside the window. Ironhaven rolled past—tired buildings painted in sickly neon, their windows catching brief flashes of headlights as the car sped by. “It was supposed to be secret. Rosalia swore to my father that the location was locked down. So how the hell were they there?”

Her words seemed to hang in the car’s heavy silence.

Ian’s gaze flickered toward her, quick but not quick enough. She caught him immediately, turning sharply to face him.

“You better keep your eyes on Avalon and his father,” she snapped, jabbing a finger toward him. Her voice had dropped, low and cold, but the anger simmered beneath every word. “I want to know everything. When they wake up. When they sleep. Who they talk to and why. I don’t care if you have to tail them for days on end—I need answers.”

Ian held her gaze without flinching, giving her a single nod. “Understood.”

Brooklyn exhaled sharply, her shoulders rising with the effort as she turned back to the window. The city outside continued to sprawl like a beast half-asleep, broken streets glowing faintly beneath dim streetlights. Somewhere in the distance, the Blackflow River glinted like an oily ribbon, slicing through the horizon.

“Dad’s gonna hate this,” Brooklyn muttered, quieter this time, the anger in her voice fraying just slightly. She rubbed at her temple with her fingertips, the motion betraying an exhaustion she refused to show openly. “I can’t go back to him with nothing…”

Ian didn’t respond, though he heard every word.

Instead, he sank deeper into thought, his mind already sharpening its focus toward the Wyndams. How they knew about the meeting didn’t matter nearly as much as what they planned to do next. Avalon had a knack for moving in the shadows, hiding his intentions behind that faint, disarming smirk. Ian would need to be just as relentless.

He catalogued a mental list of priorities—contacts to track, movements to tail, men to question. There was no room for assumptions, not anymore.

Outside the window, Ironhaven’s skyline loomed closer as they neared the Château. The glow of its white stone walls—pristine even at night—stood in harsh contrast to the decay of the city below.

Brooklyn fell silent, her fury burning itself out slowly, replaced by a calculating stillness Ian recognised well. She wasn’t defeated. She was reloading.

And so was he.

♤♤♤

The conversation with Mr Holloway had been mercifully short. Brooklyn had braced herself for an explosion of fury, but her father had simply set down his glass of wine, frowned thoughtfully, and dismissed them both. Ian suspected Brooklyn would have preferred the yelling—it would have been easier to process.

And so, perhaps to rid herself of lingering frustration, Brooklyn announced plans for a welcome party—for Tim. Naturally, she’d “suggested” it, and Ian found himself in charge of the entire thing.

That’s how Ian ended up standing at the bar of a crowded club on the outskirts of Ironhaven. It was far from the glamour of the Amore or the Château—this place pulsed with something darker, more primal. Neon lights slashed across the walls and floor in vibrant blues and greens, their glow barely illuminating the bodies moving together in tight, sweaty throngs.

Ian was nursing a glass of something that he didn’t bother to identify. He stood half in the shadows, watching Brooklyn dance in her tight blue dress, all laughter and sharp confidence, surrounded by Olympe and Tim, along with a handful of bodyguards she’d invited. The pounding music threatened to drill into his skull, but Ian let it fade into white noise, his only job was to ensure Brooklyn didn’t get herself killed—or vomit on—before the night ended.

Tonight, he wasn’t on watch. For once, he was free to breathe, though the thought of “letting go” sat uneasily in his chest.

The club’s air was thick with sweat, liquor, and desperation. Ian pushed his way through it, dodging a woman who got far too close, her perfume sharp enough to sting his nose. He ignored her surprised glare and kept walking, turning his attention to the nearest window. Outside, the Blackflow River stretched into the distance, its dark surface catching faint glimmers of light from the club.

Ian sighed and tilted his head back, rubbing at his temple as if he could push the tension away. “This was supposed to be relaxing,” he thought bitterly.

“Having fun?”

The voice cut through the noise. Ian turned to see Tim leaning casually against the bar, grinning in a way that made him look too young to belong in this world.

Ian smirked faintly, some of the edge slipping from his shoulders. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“You’re the one with all the admirers.” Tim’s grin widened as he nodded toward the dance floor. Sure enough, Ian spotted more than one woman stealing glances his way, their laughter carrying above the bass. Ian groaned under his breath, feeling heat crawl up his neck.

“Not interested,” he muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink.

Tim chuckled, clearly enjoying Ian’s discomfort. “Didn’t know you could get embarrassed, man. You should enjoy yourself for once. I’ll keep an eye on Miss Holloway if you want.”

Ian stiffened slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. Tim didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—and Ian didn’t have the energy to explain. Instead, he set his empty glass on the bar with a faint clink.

“It’s fine. Thanks,” he said simply, his tone brooking no argument. “I’m going outside. Need some air.”

♤♤♤

The air outside hit him like a balm—cool, quiet, and fresh compared to the stifling club. Ian inhaled deeply, stretching his arms as he let the tension seep from his muscles.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He wandered toward the riverside, where wooden planks and rickety benches overlooked the slow-moving water. Settling onto one of the benches, Ian leaned back against the table, elbows propped on either side of him. The Blackflow River glimmered faintly in the dark, its surface marred with ripples and the occasional gleam of something unnatural—oil, maybe, or garbage carried along the current.

The music from the club was still pounding behind him, muffled now by distance, but the relative quiet was a relief. Ian let his eyes close, feeling the faint buzz of alcohol take hold. It dulled the sharp edges of his mind, smoothing everything into something tolerable.

For a moment, the world seemed brighter—or at least less grey.

Brooklyn had called him sad once, years ago, after he’d admitted to her that the world didn’t look the same to him as it did to everyone else. “It’ll pass,” she’d said at the time. But it hadn’t. The world was still a mess of grey shadows and black voids, with flashes of crimson and steel. His life had always been that way, a muted palette where colours existed but never shone.

Ian sighed, rubbing at his face. He didn’t let himself think about it too long—about what that meant or why it was. Loneliness always followed when he lingered on it, wrapping cold fingers around his chest until breathing became a chore.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running his palm over his eyes.

“Talking to yourself isn’t a good sign, boss,” came a voice above him.

Ian’s head jerked up to see Tim grinning down at him, two beers in hand.

“Miss Holloway sent me to check on you,” Tim said as he dropped onto the bench next to him, offering Ian one of the bottles. “She told me, and I quote, to quit babysitting her.”

Ian snorted softly, accepting the beer. “Sounds like her.”

“You looked like you were about to have a mental breakdown out here.” Tim’s voice was light, teasing, but Ian caught the genuine concern underneath.

“I wasn’t,” Ian replied gruffly, taking a sip of the beer.

“Sure.” Tim raised a sceptical brow, but his tone remained light. “So what’s the deal? You don’t like people, or are you just sad?”

Ian shot him a sharp look, but Tim didn’t waver. There was no judgment in his eyes—only curiosity, like a kid poking at something he didn’t quite understand.

“It’s not that,” Ian said after a pause, his voice quieter now. He hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m just not interested in… anything like that. Relationships. People. It’s tiring.”

Tim hummed thoughtfully, leaning back as he stared out at the river. “So you’re picky?”

Ian chuckled dryly, surprising even himself. “Something like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. For once, Ian didn’t feel like he needed to explain himself—to justify what he wanted, or didn’t want, or couldn’t have.

“Brooklyn was right,” Ian said after a while, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a good addition to the team.”

Tim beamed at him, his face lighting up like a kid receiving praise for the first time.

♤♤♤

The night felt endless.

Brooklyn and the others had already returned to the Château, but Ian stayed behind, unwilling to face the silence of his empty room. He’d asked Brooklyn for the rest of the night off, and she hadn’t questioned him, simply waving him away with an understanding nod.

Now, Ian wandered the streets of Ironhaven, walking alongside one of the canals as the early morning hours wrapped the city in an eerie stillness. The world felt suspended—shops closed, streets empty, the hum of electricity crackling faintly through flickering streetlights. The Blackflow River gleamed in the distance, its ink-black waters sliding sluggishly beneath stone bridges and crumbling piers.

A beer bottle dangled from Ian’s hand, its weight grounding him as his thoughts drifted aimlessly. His conversation with Tim earlier gnawed at the edges of his mind, stirring memories he preferred to leave buried. Memories of bruises, of blood, of hunger. Of his father’s fists and the suffocating nights in underground rings.

His chest tightened. He hadn’t thought about his great-aunt in months. The woman who’d shown him more love than anyone else in his family, who cooked him meals and offered soft words when no one else would. Ian fumbled for his phone, barely realising he’d pulled it from his pocket until her name appeared on the screen.

He pressed the call button before he could stop himself. It rang once, twice—then a sleepy, familiar voice crackled through the line.

“Hello? Ian, darling, is that you?”

Ian bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed at the sound of her voice. “Hey, Auntie. Sorry. I didn’t realise how late it was.”

“You mean early,” she muttered, stifling a yawn. Ian could hear the faint rustling of sheets as she shifted. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

“I’m good,” Ian lied softly, glancing down at his scuffed boots as he walked. He focused on the sound of his steps against the cobblestones—one foot, then the other. “Eating well. Keeping busy.”

“Did you finish all the food I sent?”

Ian smiled faintly. “I did.”

“And the money you sent, Ian—”

“It’s for your medication,” he cut her off gently, his fingers curling tighter around the beer bottle. “You don’t have to argue about it. It’s done.”

A soft groan came through the line, followed by an exasperated sigh. “You worry too much about me. You’re young, darling—you should be spending that money on yourself. Go out. Buy something you like. Have fun.”

“I love you, that’s why,” Ian murmured, a little too quietly, as his steps faltered. He heard her soft laugh in response, a sound so familiar and warm that it almost broke him.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let it go—for now. But promise me you’ll take care of yourself, too, Ian.”

“I will,” Ian said, though the words felt hollow.

They exchanged goodbyes, and Ian hung up, staring blankly at the phone screen before slipping it back into his pocket. The city was still silent, but the pounding in his head felt louder than before. He took another swig of his beer, grimacing as the bitterness coated his tongue, then stretched his arms with a quiet sigh.

He didn’t want to go home—not yet.

♤♤♤

At some point, Ian wandered into unfamiliar streets. The quiet gave way to faint voices and laughter, and Ian soon spotted a group of Wyndam’s men up ahead. Their brightly coloured suits were impossible to miss even in the dim glow of street lamps.

Ian cursed under his breath, stopping short.

Great. Just my luck.

He pressed his palm against his side, feeling for the weight of his knives, and contemplated turning back. But then Brooklyn’s voice echoed in his mind: “Keep your eyes on Avalon. I want to know everything.”

Ian hesitated, then sighed. Against his better judgment—and his beer-clouded brain—he began to follow them, keeping far enough back to avoid suspicion.

The men eventually ducked into a pub, its windows clouded with smoke and condensation. Ian paused outside, staring up at the building. He knew this place by reputation alone: Wyndam territory. Gaius’s pub. Just walking inside would be enough to get him killed if someone recognised him.

But Ian wasn’t thinking clearly.

Just a peek, he told himself. In and out.

He pulled his hood up and entered the pub, keeping his gaze low as he scanned for the Wyndam men. They’d settled at a table near the back, their voices loud and careless. Ian slipped into a seat nearby, turning his back to them, and ordered a drink—something cheap that he wouldn’t touch. He pulled out his phone, pretending to play a game while straining to listen.

“...Avalon’s orders…”

Ian’s grip tightened around his phone.

“...Holloway… inside information…”

His heart began to race as he pieced together fragments of their conversation. Avalon was looking for more intel on Brooklyn—tracking her movements, sniffing out vulnerabilities. And the most chilling part: a mole inside the Holloway clan, someone close enough to slip secrets without raising suspicion.

His mind immediately flickered to Tim—the new recruit, the outsider with no past. Ian shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Tim was a possibility, but there were others. Too many others.

He was just about to leave—his gut screaming at him to get back to the Château and tell Brooklyn—when a hand landed softly on his shoulder.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was calm, smooth, and far too familiar.

Ian’s blood ran cold. He looked up, dread pooling in his stomach as his eyes met Avalon’s.

The man moved around the table with quiet grace, sliding into the seat across from Ian. As usual, Avalon was an arresting sight, even in casual wear. His white shirt fit perfectly, the fabric stretched taut over his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, revealing glimpses of the intricate black ink snaking up his arms and neck. His dark hair, usually styled to perfection, was left unkempt, soft waves framing his sharp, chiselled face. The contrast between his striking pale skin and the bold tattoos made him look both ethereal and dangerous.

Even his neon green sneakers, a jarring departure from his usual elegance, couldn’t detract from his commanding presence. Avalon’s expression—calm, sharp, and unnervingly curious—held Ian firmly in place, those golden-hazel eyes gleaming with predatory intensity as they locked onto him.

“What’s Brooklyn’s favourite man doing so far from home?” Avalon asked, tilting his head.

Ian scowled, masking his unease with a sharp glare. “I can drink wherever I want.”

Avalon’s lips twitched faintly, as if amused. “Of course. I just assumed you were more of a whiskey guy.”

Ian didn’t respond, watching warily as Avalon gestured for drinks.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Avalon said softly after a beat. There was no threat in his voice—just a simple statement of fact. Ian hated it. Hated the way Avalon seemed perfectly at ease while Ian’s every muscle remained taut.

“You’re in enemy territory, Ian,” Avalon continued, his eyes glinting faintly in the low light. “Go home. And don’t come back.”

Ian opened his mouth to retort, but Avalon was already rising. He brushed past him with an infuriating calm, his hand lingering briefly on Ian’s arm before disappearing into the crowd.

Ian remained frozen for a long moment, the weight of Avalon’s words—and his touch—lingering like a brand.

When he finally stumbled back out into the darkened streets, Ian exhaled shakily, feeling the air press heavy against his lungs.

What the hell just happened?