Grayson couldn't wrap his head around it.
What the hell had he just done? He'd been with women. Plenty of them. He liked women. Still did. But Kane wasn't just another man. Kane was different. Kane was gravity. Kane was control. Maybe it wasn't love — Christ, it definitely wasn't love — but it was something sharp enough to keep him hooked. Lust, maybe. Curiosity. Or maybe just the pull of someone who could unmake him with a look and with words. Whatever it was, it was dangerous, and Grayson wasn't fooling himself by pretending otherwise.
By the time he reached the apartment, his head throbbed with the weight of it all. He pushed the door open and half-expected to see Holly stretched out on the couch, waiting with one of her sharp remarks. But the place was quiet. No lights, no sound from the kitchen. Nothing.
He sat at the table, elbows braced on the wood, head in his hands. His palms pressed hard into his temples, as if he could grind the thoughts out of his skull. He couldn't stay in this. Couldn't keep orbiting Kane, couldn't keep pretending this was just a job. But leaving wasn't an option either. Kane wouldn't let him walk away. Not when he'd already been pulled in so deep.
A knock at the door broke the silence. Slow. Deliberate.
Grayson froze, then pushed to his feet, pulse already ticking faster. He opened the door. Kane stood there. Immaculate as always, pressed shirt and cufflinks gleaming faintly, not a hair out of place. He didn't wait for an invitation; he didn't need one. His presence alone was enough to fill the doorway.
"Evening," Kane said smoothly, eyes flicking over Grayson, taking in the loose shirt, the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion written across his face. "Come out with me."
Grayson blinked. "Out?"
"A drink." Kane's tone left no space for refusal. "Rusted Anchor."
The name hit like a gut punch. The colour drained from his face before he could stop it. Kane caught it, of course he did. His mouth curved faintly, like he'd read every thought before Grayson could say a word.
"Problem?" Kane asked.
Grayson swallowed hard. "No."
"Good." Kane stepped past him into the apartment, his gaze moving over the bare space, the bottle left on the counter, before settling back on him. "Change your shirt."
Grayson frowned. "What?"
"You're coming with me. You'll wear something that suits you." Kane's eyes dragged slowly down his frame, appraising, unhurried, deliberate. "Shirt. Tie. Don't make me repeat myself."
The words weren't loud, but they didn't need to be. They landed with the same weight as his grip on Grayson's throat earlier that afternoon.
Grayson's pulse spiked. Every instinct told him to push back, to tell Kane to fuck off, to slam the door in his face and be done with it all. But he didn't move. He couldn't. Because beneath all of that, he knew exactly what refusal would mean.
He nodded once, sharp and tight. "Give me a minute."
Kane leaned against the wall like he owned the place, cufflinks catching the dim light, his calm the kind that came from knowing he always got his way. Watching. Waiting.
Grayson turned away, heart hammering, already reaching for the only pressed shirt he still had hanging in the closet.
And the tie. Always the tie.
*****************
Grayson hadn't wanted to say yes. But when Kane stood at his door like a man who never heard the word no, the refusal died in his throat. Now he was walking beside him through the damp night air, his pulse uneven and his stomach tight.
Of all the places Kane could've chosen, it had to be the Rusted Anchor. The same place where everything had gone wrong. Where the alley still replayed in his mind, the sound of bone and breath cut short.
"Why this bar?" Grayson muttered, keeping his eyes forward.
Kane didn't break stride. "It's convenient."
"Convenient?" Grayson shot him a look. "Out of every place in the city, you pick this one."
Kane's mouth curved, faint and unreadable. "You think too much about the past."
Grayson bit back the next words. Kane wasn't going to give him anything. Not tonight.
The Anchor looked the same as it always did — dim lighting, beer-stained floors, a handful of regulars scattered in booths. Kane walked in like he owned the place. Heads turned, then turned away just as quickly, like the room already knew not to linger on him.
They slid into a booth near the back. Kane didn't bother with menus. He caught the eye of the bartender, lifted two fingers, and within a minute, a pair of glasses hit the table.
Grayson stared at his drink, then at Kane. "You always get what you want with a finger?"
Kane leaned back, unbothered. "When you know how to use it."
Grayson snorted softly, shaking his head, but the humour didn't land. His shoulders stayed tight. "So what is this? Some test? You drag me here just to watch me squirm?"
"I brought you here," Kane said smoothly, "because I wanted a drink. And you're mine to bring."
Grayson's jaw flexed. He lifted the glass, took a swallow that burned hot down his throat, and tried to focus on anything but the way Kane said mine.
Talk turned to work. Kane asked about the bar, the rhythm of the nights, the way the new staff fit. Holly's name slipped in, and Grayson stiffened.
"She's not like the others," Grayson pressed. "She doesn't belong in this mess. She deserves better."
For a long moment, Kane just studied him, eyes unreadable. Then he leaned forward slightly, voice low and calm. "Do you remember what happened the last time you got too invested in her choices?"
The memory hit sharp. Grayson swallowed hard, unable to hold Kane's gaze.
"She's not your concern," Kane said simply. "She's mine. Just like you are."
Grayson's breath came tight. He wanted to argue, wanted to demand why Kane cared, why he'd dragged him into this world in the first place.
The question slipped out before he could stop it. "Why me?"
Kane didn't answer immediately. He lifted his glass, sipped, set it down with surgical calm. His eyes stayed on Grayson the whole time.
"Why give me the job? Why—" Grayson faltered. "Why all of this?"
Kane tilted his head, gaze calculating. "Why do you think?"
"I don't know," Grayson snapped, frustration breaking through. "That's the point."
Kane smirked faintly, like he'd gotten exactly what he wanted. "You're asking the wrong questions."
Before Grayson could press Kane further, a shadow fell over the table.
"Evening."
A man stood there — wiry frame, mid-forties, sleeves rolled to the elbow, eyes sharp and restless in a way that said he missed nothing.
Kane leaned back, voice smooth. "Grayson, this is Jack. He runs the Anchor." Then, after a beat, his gaze lingering just long enough to make the words land heavier: "He's the manager. He sees everything that goes on in this place."
Jack's eyes flicked toward Grayson, polite, unreadable, before shifting back to Kane. "Quiet tonight," he said, voice low. "Cleaner than the last few weeks, anyway. Nobody left anything for us to mop up out front."
Grayson's stomach tightened. He forced himself to look down at his drink, but his hand was too tight around the glass.
Kane didn't blink. "Good."
Jack nodded once. "I'll send over the numbers tomorrow." With another brief glance at Grayson, he left them alone.
Grayson's pulse hammered. Nobody left anything for us to mop up out front. Did Jack know? Did he recognize him? Could he see it in his face, the blood that still clung to his hands? He gripped his glass too tight, heart drumming in panic while Kane spoke like they were talking about the weather.
Kane took a slow sip of his drink, unconcerned, while Grayson's chest felt too tight, his breath shallow.
When Kane finally stood and said, "We're done here," Grayson followed, but the floor felt unsteady beneath him.
The walk outside was silent. The cold air hit, sharp and bracing, but Grayson's head was still spinning.
"You think he—fuck—he knows?" Grayson's voice cracked.
Kane didn't flinch. He gave a faint shrug, maddeningly casual, like they weren't talking about the kind of secret that could bury someone alive. "Maybe. Maybe not. That's the problem."
Grayson's chest tightened. "Jack."
Kane's tone didn't shift, but the weight of it doubled. "He sees everything in that bar." A beat, then, quieter: "And so do I."
Grayson's head snapped toward him, frowning. "Why would you-?"
Kane's gaze flicked sideways, a gleam of dark amusement breaking through. "Who do you think owns that place, Gray? And who do you think tells me what goes on around here?"
The ground seemed to tilt beneath him. Grayson dragged a hand through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. "Jesus Christ." His breath came sharp, ragged. "I need to get rid of him."
The words tumbled out before he realised he was saying them, raw and desperate.
Kane's mouth curved—not quite a smile, not kindness. Something colder. Predatory. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He just stood there, immaculate and unshaken, watching Grayson come apart like he'd been waiting for this exact moment all along.