The store buzzed with fluorescent hum and the faint clatter of carts, a stark shift from the parlor's hush. Kael prowled the aisles, usually a chore he'd blitz through—grab the basics, get out. Today, though, a grin tugged his lips, sharp and mischievous. Rhea needed clothes; her old ones were wet and rags after their last tangle. He'd locked her in hours ago—midday, after their kitchen clash—and now, starting of the night, sun no where in sight, he had a chance to play, again.
He started practical: two sets of casual wear—soft tees, dark pajamas, slippers. Functional, durable, her style. Then impulse hit, and his grin widened. He snagged a dress from a rack—red, tight, a slash of sin that hugged curves and stopped short, the kind of cut that'd make her amber eyes blaze with murder or mirth. Another caught his eye—black, leather straps crisscrossing, bold and bare, screaming trouble. He tossed both in, picturing her wl, her fists, maybe a laugh if he was lucky.
Then he veered into lingerie, a aisle he hadn't planned to touch. His fingers brushed lace—delicate, sheer—then silk,ol and slick, and he went all in. A black set with straps thin as whispers, a red piece so flimsy it barelyunted, a lacy thing that'd make her skin glow and her temper flare. He piled them up, imagining her tearing through the bag—cursing him, maybe torching the lot, definitely trying to throttle him. Worth every penny, every risk.
Checkout was quick, the cashier's raised brow ignored as he paid cash—parlor money well spent. Bags rustled in his grip as he stepped into the evening, city streets alive with neon buzz and the hum of late traffic. Cooking was off the table—too late, too drained—so he swung by a takeout joint, snagging a bag of greasy burgers and fries, enough to quiet Rhea's growls for the night. He walked steady, boots scuffing pavement, the smirk still curling his lips as he pictured her reactionmfort slipping, fire sparking.
The Haven loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged against the dull background—a husk he'd carved into something his. Hours had passed since he'd left her—lunch long gone, shadows stretching now—and the bags swung light in his hands, a promise of chaos. She'd been softening lately, too easy around him, and this? This would stir her up, keep her sharp.
His steps slowed as he neared the entrance, a prickle crawling up his neck. The door gaped, a sliver of black beyond the frame, wood splintered where the lock should've held. His pulse kicked, hard and fast, the takeout bag creaking in his fist. He'd locked it—checked it—hours back. Rhea was inside,llar on, no way out. This wasn't her.
He dropped the clothes bag, soft thud on the stoop, and slid the takeout behind his back, freeing his hands. His jaw tightened, hazel eyes narrowing to slits as he scanned the damage—splinters dangling, metal warped. Someone had forced it. His boots crunched a shard as he edged closer, breath steadying, instincts flaring—old hero habits, never dead, just buried.
The hallway swallowed him as he stepped in, dim and silent, the bulb overhead flickering weak. Shadows stretched long, pooling inrners, and he moved slow—eyes sweeping, ears straining. The air felt wrong—too still, too thick, the faint musk of Rhea's room drowned by something sharper, metallic. His fingers flexed, power humming low in his veins, ready to flare if he needed it.
A rustle broke the quiet—soft, deliberate—then a creak, floorboards groaning under weight. Not Rhea's room—deeper in, past the kitchen. His heart thudded, a single, heavy beat, and he eased forward, boots silent on the tiles. The parlor's calm was gone, replaced by ald edge—hazel eyes glinting, dangerous now, a predator's focus locking in.
Rhea was here, heuld feel her presence, locked in. Whoever'd slipped past his defenses didn't know what they'd walked into. Kael's smirk was long dead, swapped for a grim line, his hands itching for a fight. The Haven wasn't just a project—it was his, hers, theirs—and this intruder? They'd learn quick what that meant.
He paused at the kitchen's threshold, the rustle sharpening—a scrape, a shuffle, close now. His breath held, poweriling tight, and he stepped in—ready to break whatever waited.