Chapter 3 - Quinn
When I wake up, the first thing I register is the scent: pine, smoke, and something dark and metallic under it, like old blood and colder iron. For a second, I think I’m still dreaming. That I’ve passed out on my keyboard and my brain is just playing some twisted highlight reel of my latest breakdown. But then I move, and the weight on my ankle jerks tight.
I sit up fast, heart thudding against my ribs as I yank my leg back, only to hear the unmistakable clink of a chain. There’s a cuff around my ankle; thick and chained to the corner post of a massive bed that looks like it was stolen straight out of a gothic fever dream.
Panic shoots up my throat like bile as I scan the room, my heart racing. The walls are stone, but smooth, dark, almost obsidian-like. There’s a fireplace lit and hot with orange coals. A single arched window lets in slats of moonlight. Everything about this place screams danger. Power, old money and older bloodlines.
This isn’t a set. It isn’t a dream. It’s not even a good acid trip. I know this room.
I wrote this room.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, tugging at the chain again, wincing as the cuff bites into my skin. “No. No no no. You did not just Black Mirror yourself into your own book, Quinn. This is not happening.”
Except it is. The moment I say my own name out loud, something clicks into place. The heat in my chest that’s been simmering like coals since the moment I looked up into those red eyes and passed out like a Victorian fainting virgin.
This isn’t someone else’s fantasy. It’s mine. My world. My rules. My mistake.
“Okay. Think,” I mutter, standing awkwardly with one foot still chained to the bed, pacing in tight little circles like a stressed-out zoo animal. “You wrote this. You know how this works. Kieran’s compound. Pack estate. You’re on the second floor, north wing, which means the security’s tight, the windows are enchanted, and the only way out is—”
The door clicks open behind me.
I freeze. Not dramatically, not in a fun “ooh plot twist” way. I freeze like prey. Like my body just remembered that the apex predator I created is about to enter the room.
And then he does.
Kieran’s shirtless, of course—because the universe clearly hates me—and his skin is marked with every line I painstakingly described during that one cursed writing sprint at two in the morning.
Tattoos curl down his chest and along his ribs, a brutal tangle of black ink and sharp geometry. His eyes aren’t just red, they glow faintly in the dim firelight, like embers caught in a wolf’s gaze. His jaw is locked. His mouth is unsmiling. His hands bare, curling into fists at his sides.
I swallow and take a step back, nearly tripping over the chain. “Okay. Hi, Kieran, uhm. So I know this looks bad, but I swear I’m not here to, like, seduce you or steal secrets or whatever insane idea you’re cooking up in that murder-brain of yours.”
His head tilts slightly. “You know my name.”
“Wow, so we’re doing this,” I say, throwing up a hand. “Cool. Casual interrogation vibes. Let me guess, you want answers. You’re going to ask me who sent me. You’re going to think I’m some spy-slash-rival-pack Omega who got dumped in your territory. Am I close? Because I can do the monologue for you if you want, it’s literally my job.”
His expression doesn’t shift. His voice is low when it comes, all gravel and threat. “You appeared at the gallows with no scent trail, no heat signature and no memory in the wards. You fell from nowhere, and you smelled like mine.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” I say, dragging my hand down my face. “Because I specifically didn’t write you a mate. You weren’t supposed to bond to anyone. No destiny. No fate. Just rage and murder and brooding in designer suits until you died tragically.”
His nostrils flare. A flash of fang peeks through his lip. “You speak of my life like it’s a performance.”
“Oh no, come on,” I groan, dropping down to sit back on the edge of the bed. “I am not built for a philosophical crisis while chained up and braless.”
He takes a step forward and I scoot back. “You’re going to make this worse,” I mutter, watching him like he might strike. “I know that face. I gave you that face. That’s your ‘I’m about to make someone bleed because they annoyed me’ face.”
Another step. He looks carved from threat and bad decisions. He looks like the version of him I was supposed to kill off three chapters from now.
“You shouldn’t be real,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I whisper.
He stops in front of me, towering, those crimson eyes pinned to mine. “Tell me where you came from.”
“I can’t,” I say honestly, palms up like I’m surrendering. “Because if I say it out loud, I’m pretty sure I’ll end up locked in a fantasy psych ward and you’ll end up with a thousand more questions I can’t answer.”
His hand snaps forward. I flinch, but he only grabs the chain where it connects to the bedpost and yanks it up until the links rattle and stretch. The movement jerks my leg, makes me wobble, off-balance and annoyed.
“You dropped into my territory like a bomb,” he says, still quiet. “You disrupted my laws. My security. You appeared during sentencing—at the gallows where I was to end Damien Voss. But you came first, and you reeked of fate.”
I blink at that. “Okay, that’s incredibly dramatic and also—yikes? Just… yikes. Like, a lot of yikes. Can we unpack that?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
He leans in, and the chain goes taut between us. I can feel the heat of him. The intensity. “You’ll stay here,” he says. “Until I understand what you are.”
“You mean who. You could say who. I’m a person, not a demon parasite.”
He doesn’t blink. “You’ll remain until the truth is stripped from your mouth or your bones.”
“Cool cool cool,” I mutter, teeth clenched. Then I whisper, “I really need to start writing rom-coms.”
Kieran lets the chain fall and steps back, turning without another word and heading for the door like he’s decided the conversation is over. I glare at his back, even though it’s distractingly well-muscled.
“You know,” I call after him, “for a guy who wasn’t supposed to have emotions, you’re coming on real strong.”
He pauses in the doorway, but doesn’t turn around. Then, with a voice so calm it’s almost soft, he says, “That was before you.”
And he leaves.
I stare at the empty doorway, breath stuck in my lungs, limbs locked with adrenaline and disbelief. My ankle still burns where the cuff digs in, my heart pounds like a drumline in my ribs, and my brain—my poor, overworked, under-caffeinated brain—is screaming all kinds of things.
Because that wasn’t just a meet-cute, that was a meet-claim.