I just don't understand why he'd come himself—or how he even found me so quickly after the misdirection.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and follow as close as they'll allow. Asher and Tomas move out first, Kayden flanking them. I'm just behind, with Jace at my side, Winston and Astrid sliding into position like a silent backline of defense.
Half a dozen sleek black cars line along the curb like wolves in a holding pattern. Engines off. Windows tinted. But the threat still hums in the air.
People stand outside, spaced too precisely to be casual. Each one in fitted black, standing like they're waiting for a command—ready to strike or shield at a second's notice.
Darlene stands near the front, arms folded, gaze locked on the distance like I'm not even there. Johnny's eyes catch mine for half a second, a silent message in their depths. He wants to say something, but can't.
And then—
Darius.
He stands beside the lead car, impossibly tall, shoulders broad beneath a tailored dark suit that looks both modern and timeless. His shirt is undone at the throat, exposing just enough collarbone to scream both control and indulgence. Old money wealth clings to him like a second skin. Power emanates from every still line of his body. His dark hair is neat, not a strand out of place. And his moss-green eyes—sharp, patient, unreadable—sweep the crowd before settling on me.
When they land, something flickers in them. Regret. Hunger. Unhinged love? He buries it too fast for anyone else to notice.
"We're closed," Winston says from behind me, tone curt. "If you're lost, we can point the way."
Darius barely spares him a glance. His eyes stay locked on mine.
"I know exactly where I am, Mr. Cole. We're not here for hospitality. Only to reclaim what's been… misplaced."
Misplaced.
The word ignites something inside me—that slow-burning, familiar fury.
Before anyone can stop me, I step forward, brushing off Asher and Kayden's attempts to intercept me.
"I'm fine," I mutter.
And then I walk straight toward him.
"Sage," Darius says with that deep, rumbling voice, arms lowering slightly, like he expects me to fall into them.
I don't.
I swing.
Hard.
My fist connects with his jaw in a satisfying crack. The sound rings out, shocking his guards into motion, hands flying to weapons, bodies shifting into defense.
But Darius raises one hand and stops them cold.
He turns back to me with a smear of blood on his lower lip, which he wipes off with elegant fingers.
He smiles.
"I missed you too."
The rage burns hotter.
I go for another hit, faster this time, but he's faster still. Always has been.
He catches my wrist mid-swing, twists with grace, and pulls me into his space, chest to chest. His other hand slides up to cradle my cheek, a jarring softness in the midst of all this angry heat.
"My fierce nature queen," he says, voice like dark honey.
