“That’s a question we’ll have to ask her,” he tells me, and I wonder if I can ask her. I wonder if my father has asked her? Surely he would be questioning her, too? Maybe once he does, he’ll see reason and actually believe me.
I open my mouth to speak, about to ask more about how we’ll handle Alpha Samuel and this situation with Lydia, when Zayn cuts me off, leaning forward and claiming my lips with his once more. This time it’s harder and more demanding. His hands are in my hair, holding my head firmly as he steals my breath.
I moan into the kiss, feeling him press closer to me. He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine as we both catch our breaths. He stares at me with hooded eyes that seem to see into my soul.
“Food first, then questions,” he murmurs against my skin.
We enter the club and take our seats at a secluded table in the corner, away from the other patrons. The place is dimly lit with red and purple lights, giving it an atmospheric feel that goes well with the intimate vibe. Our booth is big enough for six people, but we make it work for the two of us. The soft jazz music plays as our orders are taken. I notice how everyone gazes at Zayn; some lustfully, some nervously, some curiously - it’s all new to me. He seems used to it, though, not showing any signs of discomfort or awareness toward their gazes, yet I notice each one which makes me want to hide under the table.
Our food arrives soon enough; steaming plates of pasta and garlic bread, juicy steaks paired with crispy fries, and a side salad for me. The smell is heavenly as it wafts through the air toward me; my stomach grumbles in anticipation. My mouth waters at the sight of everything on our plates before us.
“Smells amazing,” I murmur between bites of my salad as Zayn tears into his steak like it’s nothing.
The rest of our meal passes by in a blur; we devour our food like we are starved, the longer we are here, the more everyone’s stares get to me. I know most are his pack members, still I find it odd how even with everything going on, the other packs people still show up to his club even if nervous.
Once the dishes are cleared, we lean back against the booth, both of us full.
“So what now?” I ask, playing with my napkin nervously.
“We go home,” he says simply, before finishing his glass of water.
“I mean about tomorrow…and the whole Lydia thing,” I clarify, and he growls lowly.
“What do you want me to say, Cleo? We’ll figure it out, for now there isn’t much we can do until we have more information.”
Zayn takes my hand in his, lacing our fingers together and squeezing gently as he pulls me from the booth, then we head back out to the car. When we reach the doors leading out, he stops making me glance at him to see he is in the mindlink. His eyes are glazed over, and I wait for him to finish. Only when he does, he looks quite panicked as he urges me faster to the car.
“Who was that?” I ask him.
“Aunt Andrea, the pack is being attacked by rogues. We need to get back home.” We race out to the car and jump in. I buckle up as he speeds off back home, my heart pounding in my chest with unease, knowing how dangerous rogues are.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer brutality that awaited us as we venture back into pack territory. Approaching the pack gate, a thick haze of smoke from the decimated buildings engulfs us, causing my stomach to plummet to my toes in dread. Zayn’s grip on the steering wheel is so tight, his knuckles turn bone white, his jaw clenched as we race around the corner toward his territory. With screeching tires, he brings the car to an abrupt halt in front of the ravaged pack house, and we both leap out, our eyes scanning the destruction.
The sight of twisted debris and charred wood is overwhelming, a haunting reminder of the savagery that has taken place here.
“Zayn!” Andrea’s voice, filled with both relief and anguish, pierces through the eerie silence as Zayn searches for where her voice came from.
We run through piles of debris and charred wood, searching madly for any sign of life, until we finally find her - coughing and wincing in pain. Andrea’s weary eyes meet Zayn’s as he scoops her up gently in his arms, cradling her fragile form against his chest. Without wasting a moment, he carries her back to his car, her gasps filling the air. Before she can utter asingle word, Zayn’s voice trembles with concern as he demands answers. “Where’s Vance?”
“I don’t know,” Andrea manages to whisper through ragged breaths. “He was helping guide everyone to the bunkers beneath the packhouse. We… we were ambushed, the doors wouldn’t lock to the bunkers, the power was cut, I had to remain outside to manually lock it. He was covering me… he…” She stops and scans around her searching for him, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air as we absorb the enormity of the situation and judging by the state of her, she had to have been caught in the fray.
A faint whimper resonates nearby. Zayn rushes toward the sound, and I race to catch up. We find his brother. It wasn’t Vance who emitted that pitiful sound; it was a rogue—one Vance has apprehended and is now dragging back to the packhouse.
“Vance,” he rumbles, voice rough and full of distress. “You okay?” He runs his hands over Vance’s body, feeling for any injuries; he’s covered in blood but none of it appears to be his.
“I caught one, the rest fled, our men have driven them east,” he tells us.
“Well take him down to the basement,” he says calmly, yet there’s an edge to his voice that makes it clear he doesn’t want any arguments. The rogue wails. “Please, I will tell you anything, you don’t need to torture it out of me.”Zayn pauses and looks at Vance. “How many?” he asks Vance.
Vance’s response offers a glimmer of reassurance amidst the chaos. “None. They mainly made a mess, set fire to a few houses, and injured a handful of men. No deaths.”
The man stares at Zayn pleadingly, his face is cut from Vance’s claws, his hair is bloody and matted, and his blue eyes shimmer with fear, a reflection of the terror consuming him.
Through sobs that echo with remorse, the man’s words stumble forth. “No, not kill. Only scare you,” he manages tochoke out. “It was a warning. He said we only had to scare you all.” His admission hangs in the air, confusing me. Who ordered them to attack? It could be anyone with Zayn being at war with half the city.
Zayn’s piercing gaze fixates on the mysterious man for a fleeting moment, demanding answers. The air crackles with tension as he demands, “Who?”
The man, his voice trembling with fear, pleads for mercy. “I don’t know! I was merely given orders. We were never told his name, only that he is from the small pack on the other side of the city—the one with the snotty blonde woman.” Silence follows, each syllable of his admission resonating with a deep sense of unease.
