Chapter 2 – Less Man, More Beast (Ivy’s POV)
“Get down!” I shout, already flipping the table up as a makeshift shield. Another gunshot blasts, shattering bottles behind the bar. Panic erupts. My heart slams against my chest as I peer around the overturned table. In the smoky haze of gunpowder, I catch a glimpse of the lead assailant’s face under a ski mask. Not that I need it—my gut tells me who this is.
Matteo Devereaux’s men. It has to be.
“Come on out, Detective!” one of them calls in a mocking sing-song. “We just wanna chat!”
My mind races. There’s no easy exit. They’re blocking the front, likely covering the back. And they know who I am.
I tap my phone—no time to dial for help. I grit my teeth and shout back, trying to buy a second, “This how Matteo chats? Sending his goons to spray bullets? Real polite!”
My voice sounds braver than I feel. Three guns against one—my odds suck. But I’ve been in worse pinches.
Without warning, a hail of bullets rips into the booth. I shield my face as the table shudders from impacts. They’re trying to take me out, no more talk.
I return fire, popping up just enough to aim and squeeze off two shots. One attacker cries out and drops, clutching his leg. Good—at least I winged one.
The others spread out as I breathe, forcing focus. They move in a pincer. I have to pick one. Left or right?
A bottle explodes over my head as the guy by the bar fires wildly in my direction. Using that distraction, I pivot and lunge out on the left side, gun up.
The jukebox goon is right there—surprised to see me rushing him. I fire point blank. The shot catches his shoulder. He howls and tackles me by reflex as he goes down.
We crash hard onto the sticky bar floor. My head slams the ground and stars erupt in my vision. His body is half on me, heavy and writhing.
I hear the other guy cursing, heavy boots approaching. No time. I grit through the dizziness and shove the injured thug off. He’s bleeding and swearing in Italian under his breath. Definitely Matteo’s crew.
I scramble behind the jukebox as more bullets chew into the wall. Only one shooter left active now, the one at the bar. The one I hit in the leg is moaning somewhere, likely immobile.
The bar falls eerily quiet for a second save for the jukebox, which after a jolt now strangely plays a scratchy old jazz tune. My ears ring. I smell blood and cordite.
“Detective Romano!” a voice calls. Not the mocking tone from before, but deep, smooth—almost cheerful, with a Cajun lilt.
My blood runs cold. That voice…I know that voice. I edge out just enough to see the man now standing in the center of the bar, gun raised casually. His men are down, but he’s utterly unfazed.
Matteo Devereaux himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, in an expensive gray suit utterly out of place in this dive. His chiselled face is twisted in a smirk, dark hair slicked back. And his eyes—God, I’ve only seen them in photos from dossiers, but meeting that predatory gaze sends a chill through me.
“Matteo,” I spit, forcing confidence as I gear up only to find his gun raised right at me.
And then, it happens in a split second. One moment Matteo is aiming at me, finger on the trigger. The next, a massive dark shape barrels into him with an animalistic snarl.
Matteo’s shout of alarm is cut off as he’s flung across a table by...what the hell is that?
My brain struggles to process. It looks like a man—but impossibly large, and fast. In the dim bar lights I catch a gleam of eyes, and a flash of elongated claws as the creature—no, person?—backhands Matteo’s last standing thug into a wall with bone-crunching force. The man slumps, out cold or worse.
Shots explode from Matteo’s men. Two muzzle flashes, then a blur as the huge stranger moves with uncanny speed. I gape. The attacker’s face is partly cast in shadow, but I see a flash of teeth bared in a snarl...teeth far sharper than a normal human’s.
The invader snarls something in a low, rough language I don’t understand. Then, with a powerful fling, he throws Matteo aside like a rag doll. The crime boss crashes through a table and lies motionless amid the wreckage.
Silence falls, broken only by my ragged breathing and a distant car alarm triggered by the commotion.
Whoever—or whatever—this is, he just saved my life... only to leave me even more terrified.
The figure straightens to his full height. Jesus, he’s tall, maybe 6’5 or more, built like a dark nightmare. He turns slowly, scanning the bar until his gaze lands on me crouched by the jukebox.
I point my gun at him, hands unsteady. “D-don’t move!” I stammer.
He steps into a shaft of neon light from the broken window. At last I see him clearly. My breath catches.
He moves, faster than I can react. A dark blur. My gun is ripped from my grasp and flung aside in one fluid motion.
I gasp, instinctively throwing a punch, but my wrist is caught in an iron grip. He pins me against the bar in the blink of an eye. My wrists trapped above my head in one of his large hands. He’s pressed close—too close—his body radiating unsettling heat.
“I…” I struggle, heart hammering. “Let go of me!” I hiss, yanking at my arms uselessly.
Instead of complying, he does something unexpected: he sniffs me. A quick, sharp intake of breath near my neck, as if inhaling my scent. His eyes narrow further, and for a split second, I see... satisfaction?
“Wh-what are you doing?” I demand, unnerved to my core.
He responds at last, his voice a gravelly murmur near my ear. “Found you.”
He lowers his face toward mine. I freeze as I lock eyes with him.
I saw nothing but darkness next, but before that… I saw… red…