“Let’s grab something to eat,” Sloane says, glancing back at us. Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of fatigue there. That quiet kind, the kind that settles deep in your bones. We nod. No one argues.
We slide into a booth at a corner restaurant tucked into one of the old brick buildings along the river. The walls are lined with old shipyard photos and lanterns flicker gently from iron sconces. The air smells of warm bread and whiskey. Our waitress comes by with menus, but I don’t read mine.
I stare out the window at the water, at the ghost of who I thought I’d find tonight. Amelia. My little sister. The one Cornelius died trying to protect. The one I haven’t seen since the night everything went to hell. If Savannah’s where Alice runs her empire from, then Amelia’s here somewhere. I can feel it. A splinter under the skin, buried but burning.
And my brother? He’s out there too. Donovan knew what happened to them. He just didn’t live long enough to tell me everything. A growl builds low in my throat before I shove it down. I press my fist against the table edge. Hard. The pain helps. Reminds me I’m still here. Candace lays a hand on my thigh under the table. Her fingers press gently, grounding me.
The pressure of her touch punches the air from my lungs. It’s not sexual. Not sweet. It’sreal. The only thing that anchors me when everything else is slipping. I look over and her eyes meet mine. No words. Just understanding. She’s feeling it too. That same hollow ache. The weight of every unanswered question.
She’s here with me. Still standing. Suddenly, that feels like a fucking miracle. I curl my fingers around hers. Hold on. For now, it has to be enough. But deep down, I know. I’m going to burn this city down to get them back.
Later that night, after we’ve parted ways with the others, Candace and I walk through Savannah’s historic district toward our Airbnb. The night is thick with Southern heat, the kind that sinks into your clothes and lingers in the curve of your spine. Mist curls at the edges of cobblestone streets, turning lamp posts into halos and shadows into specters. The air tastes of jasmine and ghost stories. Sweet and strange.
Candace leans into me, her arm brushing mine with just enough pressure to spark something primal. I feel it in my bones, that subtle tension radiating off her. She’s uneasy, but won’t say it. Not yet.
“You good?” I ask, my voice pitched low.
She shrugs. “This place gives off serious haunted house vibes. I swear I just saw a man in a top hat vanish behind a bush.”
I smirk. “You sure it wasn’t East? He’d haunt a mansion just for the dramatic entrances.”
Candace snorts. “East would demand fog machines and a gothic soundtrack. That guy seems like the type who types angry letters to the editor from the afterlife.”
We turn down a quieter street. The mist thickens, rolling along the ground with a mind of its own. Shadows shift too easily. My instincts bristle. Just fog, I tell myself. Just fog.
Candace presses closer to my side, her body heat syncing with mine. The rhythm of her steps falls into mine, unspoken.
“I could protect you,” I murmur, letting my voice dip into something darker, filthier. “Throw myself between you and a vengeful literary ghost. Maybe get handsy just to distract him.”
She side-eyes me, lips twitching. “If I needed protection, I’d be with a golden retriever firefighter. Not a biker with a God complex.”
“Ouch.” I drag my hand over my heart. “You saying I’m not safe?”
She slows, eyes raking over me, biceps, jaw, the ink just visible beneath my collar. Her gaze lands on mine, sharp and charged. “I’m saying you’re dangerous.”
I lean in, brushing her ear with my breath. “And you want that.”
A shiver rolls through her. I feel it under my hand when I slide it around her waist and pull her into me, her chest brushing mine. Her scent hits me, warm skin, faint vanilla, a note of something sweet I can’t name. It lingers. Marks me.
“I ever tell you how good you look when you’re freaked out?” I murmur. “Gets me hard in the weirdest ways.”
She huffs out a laugh, half breath, half need. “Your idea of flirting is probably illegal in most states.”
“Good thing we’re in Georgia.” My hand slips lower, fingers splaying across her hip. “Where bad behavior is practically encouraged.”
“Keep talking that way and I’m going to forget why we’re walking.”
“That’s the point.” I tilt her chin up and kiss her, slowly, teasing, then deeper, rougher. Her mouth parts under mine and she melts into me, her hands fisting the front of my shirt.
Somewhere between the kiss and the groan she swallows down, I feel her start to tremble, not from fear. From need. But when we break, there’s a flicker in her eyes. Vulnerable. Raw. I want to ask. I want to stop and make sure she’s okay. But I don’t. Not yet.
“I’m gonna take my time with you tonight,” I whisper, fingers brushing the curve of her ass. “Strip you out of every piece of lace, kiss every inch until you’re begging, then fuck you so slow you’ll forget your name.”
Her breath catches. “Promise?” she whispers.
I grin against her mouth. “Scout’s honor.”
She doesn’t know it, but that vow? I mean it more than anything I’ve ever said.
