When he broke the kiss, I could barely remember my name.
“You took me so well,” Kronos murmured, his voice a low rumble as he stroked my cheek. “I’m going to take care of you just like that when we get to my apartment. It’s just around the corner…” His silver eyes gleamed with promise.
Something twisted in my chest at his words, a strange plummeting sensation like my heart had droppedinto my stomach. My mouth filled with the taste of copper, and I couldn’t breathe. The alley seemed to narrow, the brick walls closing in.
His hand reached for mine, but I jerked back. “I can’t—” The words stuck in my throat. “I can’t do this.”
Confusion crossed his features. “Alex?”
I shrugged off his jacket, thrusting it against his chest. “I’m sorry, I just—I can’t.”
But I was already backing away, my legs moving of their own accord. I turned and bolted down the alley, the night air biting against my skin without the borrowed warmth.
“Alex!” Kronos called after me, his voice echoing off the buildings. “Wait!”
I didn’t look back, just kept running, each footfall sending jolts of pain through my already battered body. I didn’t understand why I was running, why praise that should have felt good instead felt like hands around my throat. All I knew was that I needed to get away, needed air, needed space.
The familiar path home appeared before me. Three blocks. I just needed to make it three blocks. My lungs burned, but I pushed forward, past the closed bookstore, past the 24-hour laundromat with its harsh fluorescent glow, past the corner market where Twyla bought her favorite tea.
By the time I reached the general store, my side was screaming in pain and sweat had soaked through my shirt despite the cold. I paused at the door to the side entrance, listening for any sign of pursuit. Nothing but the distantsounds of the city at night. Fumbling with my keys, I slipped inside and began the long climb up the creaky stairs to the apartment.
Chapter Three
Leashed
I lined up my tools with shaking hands: awl, needles, thread, rivets, all in their designated spots on the workbench. The routine of it settled something in my chest that had been fluttering since dawn, a meditation in metal and leather. Here, in my workspace, everything had its place. Everything made sense. The chaos of the world—of last night—couldn’t touch me here.
I reached for my tooling knife, but paused when I noticed an intricate pattern I needed to trace. With practiced ease, I extended my index finger, a tiny blue flame blooming from the tip like a miniature torch. The cool fire cast perfect shadows on the leather, making the pattern easier to follow. This small use of my abilities had become second nature in my craft, though I’d never admit to Twyla how much it improved my work.
My fingers traced the familiar patterns worn into my wooden workbench, remembering how many hoursit had taken to arrange everything just so. Leather working had started as therapy. Something tactile to ground me after escaping the Madam’s world. Something honest. Real. My reflection caught in the polished surface of a brass rivet—blue eyes stark against dark tan skin, black hair falling in my face again despite my best efforts to tame it this morning.
I pushed my sleeves up, the tattooed designs on my arms catching the morning light. The intricate patterns had cost me months of savings, but they were worth every penny—a permanent reminder that my body belonged to me now, not to the Madam or her clients. Some customers at the shop would eye the tattoos, as if the swirling designs marked me as dangerous or unpredictable. Others, like Twyla, saw them as art. I wondered what Kronos thought of them.
I’d barely made it home before sunrise, slipping through the back entrance like a ghost. A hot shower had washed away the evidence of the night, though the phantom sensation of the length of Kronos in my throat and hands still lingered on my skin. I’d managed to get my clothes into the wash before Twyla’s early-morning energy could manifest. Not that she would have judged—she wasn’t the type—but her worry was its own kind of weight. She’d taken enough chances on me already, given me a job when my resume had more holes than substance, offered me the apartment upstairs when I’d been sleeping in my car. I didn’t need her worrying about me getting roughed up by my old life.
The front window of the store stopped me in my tracks, my reflection a dark shadow against her winter fantasy. Somehow, in the chaos of her late-night creative frenzy, Twyla had transformed it into a wonderland. Paper snowflakes danced on invisible threads, catching the morning light and casting prismatic patterns across my face. Crystalline branches, made from who-knows-what recycled materials. Knowing Twyla, probably salvaged from three different dumpster-diving expeditions—created an abstract forest scene. The mess she’d left behind—window paint in every shade of blue and white imaginable scattered across the bench, brushes soaking in cups of water, glitter absolutely everywhere—had taken an hour to clean up. But the result? A winter wonderland.
The counter bore faint smudges of paint where she couldn’t decide between Arctic Blast and Midnight Frost for the snowdrift shadows. I’d found her notes scattered everywhere, covered in her signature purple gel ink: “More sparkle?” and “Check Pinterest for ice crystal references” and “Ask Alex about leather snowflakes???” Her handwriting as chaotic as her mind, ideas spilling across every available surface.
Now, halfway through what had turned into one of our busiest days of the year, I could hear her chattering with customers out front. Her voice carried that infectious enthusiasm that drew people in, made them want to be part of whatever she was creating. The bell above the door chimed every few minutes, bringing in another wave of holiday shoppers drawn by her window display.The sound should have been grating after hours of it, but instead it felt like a heartbeat, the rhythm of a normal life I’d fought so hard to build.
Her excitement had been infectious when she showed me the space she’d cleared for my leather work—prime real estate near the register, with proper display backlighting and everything. She’d rearranged the store to make it happen, her hyper-focus channeled into creating the perfect display space.
“Your stuff is too good to hide in the back room,” she’d declared, her rainbow glasses slipping down her nose. Her purple micro braids had been freshly done, wrapped in two thick bubble plaits that swung with her enthusiasm. The oversized cardigan she wore—today’s featuring panels of knitted celestial patterns—had nearly knocked over a display of vintage teacups in her excitement. “And don’t argue about the profit split. You earned it.”
The shop bell chimed again, and something in me recognized the presence before I even looked up. Power rolled through the store like a summer storm, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My hands stilled on the leather, fingers pressing into the soft hide hard enough to leave impressions of my fingerprints. The temperature dropped and rose all at once, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Kronos.
Here.
In the daylight.
The winter light caught his perfectly styled red quiff as he stepped into the shop, transforming ordinary copper into something ethereal. Those silver eyes—quicksilver pools that captured both starlight and storm clouds—swept across the room until they found mine, and time seemed to slow. His brown leather jacket hung on broad shoulders with the casual confidence that only true old money could affect, its worn edges somehow making the pristine clothing beneath appear even more expensive. The shadow of stubble along his jaw invited thoughts of how it might feel against my fingertips, my cheek, my lips—a deliberate contrast to the aristocratic lines of his face.
My heart lurched against my ribs as recognition hit. The alleyway behind The Rusty Nail. The taste of whiskey on his lips. My knees on rough concrete. The breathless invitation to his apartment that had sent me fleeing into the night. I hadn’t expected to ever see him again—I’d convinced myself that in the bar’s darkness I wouldn’t even recognize him if I did. There was no mistaking that face, even in the unforgiving daylight.
I heard Twyla’s cheerful greeting float back from the front of the store: “Welcome to Twyla’s Trinket & Trade! Let me know if you need any help finding—” Her voice caught, and I knew she’d felt it too. That otherness that rolled off him in waves. She possessed an almost supernatural awareness of the unseen currents of life, the emotions of others, and the spirit of places. It’s why her window displays always caught the right light, or why customers felt so at home in her chaos.
