Chapter 10 Kristen
The first thing I noticed when I woke was that the bed was cold. Not just empty—cold. He’d been there last night. I remembered that much. Not touching me. Not even looking at me, really. But I’d rolled over and felt his side. Solid. Warm. Now the blanket was flat and the space where he’d been was airless and still. I blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented.
Where the hell was I?
Right. The safehouse.
Wood walls. One room. No reception. One man who bent metal and dragged me out of a lake like he’d done it a hundred times before.
I sat up slowly and rubbed my eyes. The shirt I’d changed into still smelled like the closet. Faint perfume clinging to the cotton. A woman’s perfume. It didn’t smell like me, and the idea that it had belonged to one of his occasional guests made my stomach twist for a reason I couldn’t name.
I pushed off the blanket and padded across the room barefoot, listening for any sound.
Nothing.
I moved toward the window, brushed the edge of the curtain back, and scanned the treeline. There was a soft trail of mist across the grass. No birds. No voices. Just the wind and the sharp bite of morning air leaking through the old glass.
The cabin was too quiet.
I opened the door and stepped outside.
The sun was low. Early still. Trees surrounded the clearing, the air cold enough to lift goosebumps along my arms. I didn’t see him. Not at first. I turned toward the edge of the cabin, following the faint sound of water. Not a stream. Steady. Mechanical. Too even to be natural.
That’s when I heard it.
Breathing.
Low. Measured. Controlled. Each inhale timed like it had to be. There was tension under the sound, like a groan held back.
I rounded the corner—
—and stopped.
He was under the outdoor shower.
Naked.
His head tipped back. One arm braced against the wood post. The water came down hard and fast, pouring over his shoulders, his chest, soaking the short, dark hair at the base of his neck. His muscles flexed with every movement. His stomach was tight. His hips angled forward. His hand—
His hand was around his cock.
Slow, steady strokes. Not frantic. Not lazy. Focused. Almost punishing. His knuckles whitened with the grip. His cock was thick, flushed dark with blood, water sliding over it in long streams. It twitched in his hand as he tightened his grip, jaw locked like he was biting back a sound.
I didn’t move.
I should have. I should have backed away the second I saw what he was doing. But I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t move. Something between my thighs clenched. My breath stuttered, and I felt the heat rise up my chest, up my neck, pooling behind my eyes like some kind of pressure that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with wanting.
His thighs tensed. His hand moved faster. He muttered something I couldn’t hear—one word, low and guttural—and that’s when his eyes opened.
He saw me.
His body jerked once. He stopped instantly. Water still poured over him, but he yanked his hand away and half-turned, trying to cover himself with his arm. His cock was still rock-hard, thick and glistening, twitching against his thigh. He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked pissed. His chest heaved. His jaw clenched tighter.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he snapped.
I tried to speak. My voice didn’t work. I took a half-step back.
“I— I was looking for you.”
“This isn’t the place to do it.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Go inside.”
His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut through me like a blade. He didn’t move to grab a towel. Didn’t bother pretending. Just stood there, dripping, hard, furious. Water rolled down his abs, over the thick line of hair that trailed from his navel to the base of his cock. My mouth was dry. My thighs pressed together instinctively.
I turned and walked away, head down, pulse throbbing in my ears.
Inside, the air felt heavier.
He followed a minute later, dressed in nothing but a towel slung low across his hips. I didn’t look at him. He didn’t say anything until he’d crossed the room and grabbed the edge of the counter.
“You’re not safe here,” he said.
“No shit.”
“I mean from them. From the thing that killed your father.”
I looked up.
“You still haven’t told me what that thing was.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
He turned and leaned both hands on the counter. Water dripped from his hair, hit the floor. His back was wide, muscles shifting with the tension in his arms.
“You need to go to Phoenix.”
“I’m not ready to go back there.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
I stepped closer. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He didn’t look at me.
I stopped a few feet away. “Tell me the truth.”
He finally exhaled. Not tired. Just done pretending.
“My father was a Bloodhound,” he said. “It’s a group—used to be bikers, centuries ago. They guarded the realm between this world and the next. Not heaven. Not hell. Something else. Something… deeper.”
My breath caught. “And my father?”
“He was one of us.”
I stepped back.
“He didn’t tell me any of this.”
“I know.”
“So why now?”
“Because the gate is thinning. And something came through. Something that wasn’t supposed to.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He straightened. “Phoenix is a nexus point. It’s not just a college. It’s an academy. It trains people like you. People whose bloodline makes them visible.”
“Visible to what?”
He looked at me then. Fully. No armor. No smile.
“The things that feed on the in-between.”
My stomach turned.
“I’m not ready.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You just have to go.”
“And what, let them figure it out?”
“I’ll help you.”
He said it like it was a promise. Like it already cost him something.
I looked away. My skin still burned from what I’d seen.
He glanced toward the hallway. “There’s a tub in the back. You should take a bath. Warm up.”
I shook my head.
“Suit yourself.”
He stepped into the back room and left the door half-open. I didn’t mean to look. But when I passed the door, I caught a glimpse of him through the crack.
Towel gone.
He was drying off with slow movements, one arm raised as he dragged the towel across his shoulders. His body was lean, not bulky—built from use, not decoration. His ass was firm. Muscled. The backs of his thighs flexed with every movement. When he turned slightly, I saw the shape of him again, swinging heavy between his legs.
I didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
He looked like power made flesh. Quiet power. The kind that didn’t need to roar to be heard.
The door closed.
A few minutes later, he came out dressed. Dark jeans. A black thermal shirt that clung to his chest and arms like a second skin. His hair was damp and slicked back. The tattoo across his chest hidden again, like the man under the ink had been sealed away.
He looked at me, calm again. Composed.
“Let’s get you ready for college,” he said.