A cry. Not his.
A woman’s.
Somewhere near the entrance, someone yells. I turn, bull eyes blazing, and I see them: three figures in the shadows, standing frozen, eyes wide.
Witnesses.
Wrong place, wrong time. One of them stumbles back, grabs the other by the arm, and they bolt. A door slams. A car starts outside.
Too late to chase. Too slow to care.
I shift back, the transformation slower now, the pain sharper. It always is when I lose control. I drop to one knee, skin slick with sweat and blood, hands coated in red. My own breath rasps in my ears, loud and empty.
Marco’s body lies twisted a few feet away. He’s not moving.
I stare at him for a long time.
The satisfaction that usually follows is gone. No sense of completion. No cold comfort. Just… space. A vast, aching space where the rage used to sit.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk out, footsteps loud against the metal floor.
Outside, the van’s gone. Jan must’ve bailed the second he heard the shift.
I walk.
No destination, no path. Just moving, because staying still feels like sinking.
The Seal hums again, quiet and steady now, like it’s waiting.
I don’t tell it to shut up.
4
KALEIGH
The next time they call me in, it’s after midnight. Pilar shows up at my door without warning, leaning against the frame like she owns the place, chewing on a piece of gum and looking like she’s just come from someone else’s bad decision.
“Boss wants another look,” she says before I can even ask why she’s here. “Your boy’s acting twitchy.”
“He’s not my anything,” I answer, stepping back to grab my bag.
“You say that now.”
I ignore her smirk, sling the strap over my shoulder, and lock the door behind me.
The ride is quiet. Pilar hums under her breath, something off-key and tuneless. I watch the city roll past the window in a wash of gold lights and dark alley mouths, the streets pulsing with life even at this hour. Seville doesn’t sleep. It simmers.
When we get there, Mateo isn’t waiting, and I’m glad for it. His brand of charm wears thin fast, like bad perfume and worse lies. Instead, one of the fight pit guards walks me down a narrow hall I didn’t see the first time. The walls are darker here, the light colder.
“Don’t stay too long,” the guard mutters before opening the door. “He’s… off tonight.”
That’s what they always say about men like Rafe. Off. Unstable. Like they’re machines malfunctioning instead of people unraveling.
I step inside and the door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in a room that’s all shadow and stillness and something else I can’t quite name. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty. The kind that holds its breath.
He’s already pacing when I enter, long strides that eat the floor, boots thudding with a rhythm just a little too tight, too fast. His hands are balled into fists, knuckles cracked and bandaged again, and sweat clings to the back of his neck, turning his black shirt darker. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t stop.
I sit.
