Trinity was drunk, gloriously so. A happy, bubbly intoxication she hadn't experienced in years, not since her partying days had dwindled to a rare occasion. Her alcohol tolerance, predictably, was now laughably low. The steady stream of drinks she and the guys had been sharing had hit her fast and hard, leaving her giggling and lightheaded.
Grayson watched the pair, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips. They were being utter fools, Ryan twirling Trinity with clumsy enthusiasm, her laughter echoing through the bar. But beneath the surface amusement, he saw his brother's genuine happiness at having her there. For a fleeting moment, Grayson had even entertained the notion that Ryan might finally act on the simmering connection between them, that unspoken something that hovered between close friendship and something more. Yet, as always, their dynamic remained a comfortable, if intensely close, platonic bond.
Then, his gaze drifted back to Trinity as she spun, her joy infectious. The alcohol in his own system, a weak attempt to numb the persistent ache of Olivia's betrayal, seemed to sharpen his perception instead. He saw Trinity anew. Womanly. The realization struck him with an odd jolt. She had always been beautiful in a youthful way, but now… now she possessed a startling, unnerving beauty. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see her solely as his brother's friend, the girl they had allowed into their tightly guarded family circle.
She was undeniably an attractive woman, and the drinks had loosened the reins on his thoughts, allowing his mind to wander down paths it shouldn't, to dwell on the undeniable allure Trinity now possessed.
The years they had been away felt like a chasm. He had been firm with Ryan, forbidding any contact with her. It wasn't a matter of distrusting Trinity; her loyalty was unwavering, almost to a fault. But their world was complicated, dangerous, and she didn't belong in it. When they had left, severing ties had been the only way to ensure her safety, to prevent her from following them into the unknown had she known their destination.
Trinity, unlike many others, had no real anchors tying her down. A part of him had always known she would likely still be here, in this familiar place, with nowhere else pressing to go. And if she stayed, the chances of their paths crossing again, however much he tried to prevent it, were always there. Her fierce loyalty, a trait he both admired and worried about, wouldn't change their fundamental circumstances.
His gaze lingered on her. Her black hair, thick and glossy, cascaded down her back, swaying just above the curve of her hips with each movement. The years had indeed been kind to her. The boyish slenderness he remembered had softened into a more curvaceous, undeniably seductive figure.
He hadn't missed the way her rain-dampened clothes had clung to her when she first entered the bar, outlining her newfound shape with unflinching clarity. His eyesight, honed to a razor's edge by his wolf blood, had registered every detail.
Her bright blue eyes, sparkling with unadulterated joy, suddenly locked onto his.
A wide, inviting smile stretched across her lips as she reached out, her small hand finding his. She pressed his palm to her cheek, leaning into it with a sultry, playful tilt of her head—a clear, deliberate shift from friend to something flirtatious. She tugged, a silent invitation to join her in her drunken revelry. He could only manage a grin in response, rooted to the spot.
Ryan, catching his eye, lifted his pack of cigarettes and gestured towards the door. Grayson nodded almost imperceptibly.
Then, yielding to Trinity's persistent tug, he relented. He pulled her closer, and she stepped into his embrace with a delighted giggle.
A sweet, intoxicating warmth radiated from her as her hands circled his waist, her gaze lifting to meet his. It was an innocent gesture, yet the proximity, the trust in her bright eyes, sent a jolt of something primal through him. He wasn't sure if she had any inkling of the effect she was having.
He felt himself being instantly and violently drawn in, the magnetic pull now an overwhelming, reckless current he couldn't resist. His control, already weakened by alcohol and grief, snapped. Leaning forward, his hand instinctively found the nape of her neck, his thumb brushing against the soft skin there.
This time, the gesture was not tender. Grayson's hand clamped down, pulling her face to his, and his lips crushed onto hers with a possessive, all-consuming force that was far too rough, too desperate. It was a demand for relief, not a light kiss.
The contact was electric. Her lips, soft and plump, parted slightly beneath his. A low, guttural sound tore from Grayson's chest as he instantly spun her, driving her backward and slamming her against the cool, slick surface of the bar. The muffled thud sent a shiver through the few patrons nearby.
For Trinity, the sheer aggression of the move was like a physical blow. Her initial shock gave way to a surge of pure, overwhelming desire. This was the intensity she had only ever dreamed of from him. She was explicitly willing, allowing her hands to instinctively slide up to grip his shoulders, wanting to pull him closer. But her body still tensed, not from rejection, but from the completely unexpected, brazen public nature of the act.
She tried to voice her surprise, maybe even say his name to ground them both. A choked sound—"G-Gra..."—formed in her throat but was immediately drowned out by the feverish pressure of his mouth and the frantic urgency of his breath.
Grayson's hands were everywhere, fueled by a terrifying, primal urgency. His right hand left her neck, sweeping down to her jeans. He hooked his thumb deep beneath the waistline and hauled her hips forward. It wasn't enough; the barrier felt insurmountable. In one fluid, brutal motion, he lifted her right leg, hooking her knee over his hip, using the sudden imbalance to tilt her pelvis upward.
He began to grind himself against her, a raw, shocking friction, rubbing his hard erection directly onto her jean-covered womanhood in a furious, needy rhythm. He wanted more than contact; he wanted to fuse with her. His other hand, hot and calloused, slid up beneath the hem of her damp, fitted top. His fingers were rough and fast as they fumbled past the thin fabric of her bra, cupping the full curve of her breast with an aggressive squeeze that made her gasp into his mouth.
He was lost. The wolf-blood in his system was screaming, fighting to resurface, and all his aggression, his self-loathing, and his sudden, potent lust poured into the kiss. He felt overwhelming, desperate, and rough—completely consumed by the heat that was only ever supposed to be a light, birthday kiss. He was out of control, utterly lost in the taste and the feel of her body.
Trinity's cheeks burned crimson, and her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, caged bird. The public display made her feel exposed and intensely embarrassed, a rush of mortification warring fiercely with the intoxicating thrill of his touch. She was dizzy, her body overwhelmed, her emotions violently swinging between a dream-like delight at his attention and a terrifying realization of his unexpected, barely controlled aggression. Despite the discomfort of the setting, she didn't fight him, instead arching her back, giving in to the raw need that radiated off him.
The moment was brutally ended.
A sharp, loud SMACK! echoed through the quiet bar as the bartender slammed her open palm flat onto the polished bar top, rattling the ice in their empty glasses.
Grayson's head snapped back, his eyes dark, glazed, and unfocused—the eyes of a man surfacing from drowning. Trinity stood rigid against the bar, her shirt pulled up and wrinkled, her face bright red, her leg still awkwardly lifted and resting on his hip.
The bartender leaned forward, her kind smile completely gone, replaced by a look of sharp, unmistakable irritation. "Might be time to take that home," she said, her voice dropping to a low, firm rasp that cut through the silence.
The spell was broken. Trinity stumbled forward slightly, completely flustered and avoiding eye contact with anyone. Grayson, looking rough and completely overwhelmed by what he'd just done, gripped her shoulders, his knuckles white.
Ryan, catching his eye, lifted his pack of cigarettes and gestured towards the door. Grayson nodded almost imperceptibly.
Then, he released Trinity, not with a word, but with a palpable shift in his focus. His brow was furrowed, his intense gaze fixed on the bar's entrance. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. One moment he was there, his touch still burning on her lips, the next he was a blur of motion, disappearing out the door as if the building were ablaze.
What in God's name was happening? Disoriented but spurred by a sudden, chilling premonition, Trinity fumbled for some cash on the bar and hurried after him.
Outside, the joyful buzz of moments ago shattered into a horrifying tableau. She saw Ryan being roughly manhandled by a man dressed in a police uniform. But instead of a police car, a Greyhound bus idled at the curb, its windows filled with silent, unnerved faces. Ryan struggled against the officer's grip, his protests muffled. Two other men in identical uniforms held Grayson back with brutal efficiency.
Trinity stared, her mind reeling. This wasn't right. This wasn't how things worked. Why would police officers be herding people onto a Greyhound bus?
Suddenly, one of the officers grappling with Grayson paused, his head snapping up. He took a deep, audible sniff of the air, his eyes locking onto Trinity.
A primal fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her lingering intoxication. She stumbled backward, unsure what to do, her heart hammering against her ribs. The officer's gaze wasn't overtly threatening, but it was undeniably hostile, possessive. He barked something at his companion, leaving him to subdue the struggling Grayson, and began to stride towards her.
"Stop!" Grayson roared, his voice a guttural snarl that didn't sound entirely human. "Leave him alone! He hasn't done anything!" He thrashed against the officer holding him, his muscles bulging, a desperate, animalistic fury radiating from him. Wolves, his inner voice screamed, the scent of them thick and unmistakable in the night air. Three of them, disguised, their predatory aura barely concealed beneath the thin veneer of authority.
Panic seized Trinity. The only instinct she could muster was to scream. She opened her mouth, drawing in a lungful of air. But before the sound could escape, the man was upon her. And then, everything went black. The high of the kiss, the dizzying joy of the evening, plummeted into an abyss of terrifying, unknowable darkness.