Chapter Seventeen

Zane’s tactical retreat (for no one could ever accuse him of fleeing) had landed him in a self-storage facility not far from the docks. Witnesses were scarce as he jogged out the gates, through the light-industry belt, marvelling at his increased stamina. His long stride devoured the sidewalk until a store advertising durable workwear hove into view.

Muttering a prayer of thanks, Zane ducked inside—actively stooping to fit through the door.

Gentle music and the smell of laundry detergent greeted him. Racks upon racks of coveralls, cargo pants, hi-vis shirts, and steel-capped boots filled the sales floor. Hard hats, work gloves, and safety equipment took up an entire wall. The big-and-tall section beckoned enticingly, a promise of dignity restored.

“Be right with you!” Called a friendly, feminine voice from the back.

Zane barged through the displays, knocking over a stand of welding goggles in his haste. He chose the largest boilersuit on offer—a drab affair of navy drill cotton—and squeezed his new physique into the XXXL garment, seams creaking in protest.

That’s when the salesgirl appeared.

She was a petite little thing with a punk-goth aesthetic: spiky dyed-black hair, elaborately pale makeup, and facial piercings that glittered beneath the fluorescents. Slim-fitted khaki work shorts hugged her hips, and a green outdoor shirt knotted beneath her perky chest exposed a scandalous span of porcelain midriff. A nametag pinned to the pocket read “Melandra.”

Melandra scowled at the toppled displays, stamping a tan workboot in irritation.

“Bro, you didn’t have to wreck the joint—” Her voice faltered as her gaze landed on him. Her dark-rimmed eyes widened, dilated, and drank him in with obvious hunger. “Um… hi?”

He returned the stare, looming over her. She had something—faint, but there. A tiny psychic flicker tickled his senses. An empath, maybe. A gift so weak she probably mistook it for intuition. And yet within the range of his empowering aura, that spark practically sang.

She felt it too. The way her painted lips parted, the nervous tuck of hair behind an ear, the subtle sway of her hips—Melandra was caught in the tide of his cosmic presence.

I could level her up, Zane realized, but that sounded a lot like Kinetica’s thinking. It would be so easy…

One quickie in the changing room, and he could turn this spunky salesgirl into something more. She wanted him to. Yearned for it. Drifted in closer, sniffing the air like a hound on the hunt.

She wouldn’t protest when he picked up her much smaller form, ripped the uniform off that lithe, tender body, and ravished her punk pussy on the check-out counter.

Hell, the girl would thank him for it, through rapturous wails and running mascara. He’d light up that free-spirited snatch like the fourth of July, leaving her stuffed to the eyeballs with power and jizz.

The mental image both thrilled and sickened him.

There was nothing to worry about.

No. That wasn’t right. He’d barely escaped three women tearing at his soul. He would not fall into that trap again.

“I—can I help you with anything, sir?” Melandra asked, trembling as she tried for sultry professionalism. “Anything at all?”

Zane peeled a few Benjamins from his money clip and stuffed them down the front of her shirt. A crude but effective compromise. His knuckles brushed a hardened nipple in the process. Accidentally, of course.

She whimpered. Not in fear. But in longing.

“I need sturdy footwear. These clothes. And… a few other items,” Zane muttered, his treacherous tool stirring within the constricting coveralls. “Where are the dressing rooms?”

She gestured, wide-eyed, to the back. Her breath came fast, cheeks reddening beneath the pale makeup, hands twisting in the knot of her shirt. “I-I could show you… if you like–”

“No!” He barked before taking second to calm himself. “No, thank you. Wait by the register. I won’t be long.”

Minutes later, Zane emerged from the dressing room transformed—not as a hero, but into something more mundane, more human. Steel-capped boots, reinforced coveralls, a white hard hat, and leather gloves dangling rakishly from his pocket. An ordinary working man’s attire.

For a moment, it almost made him feel normal. Almost.

Melandra was waiting by the register, as commanded, jittery as a kitten that had licked a truck battery. She smoothed her shirt, tugged her shorts lower, then higher again, unable to decide which was sluttier. When Zane laid his billfold down, she leaned in, gaze flicking between the stack of cash and the impossible expanse of his muscles shifting beneath the fabric.

“I don’t know what that was,” she whispered, voice husky, pupils blown out. “But I wanted to… God, I wanted to climb you like scaffolding. And I don’t do that. Not with a guy. I’m strictly into girls and still—” She stopped herself, shivering. “Whatever you’ve got, it isn’t fair.”

Her shame only made her hotter.

Zane swallowed the lump in his throat. He should say something noble, something clarifying, something decisive. Instead, he fished another C-note from his clip and slid it across the counter a little too quickly, as though he was bribing himself to walk away.

“Life’s not fair, sweetheart.” He muttered, bopping her chin with his forefinger and plastering on an easy grin.

Melandra whimpered as his knuckles brushed her breast again—not so accidentally this time. She closed her eyes, charcoal lips parted, a girl on a precipice begging to be pushed over the edge.

Zane scooped up his bag and departed before he did exactly that.

Out on the street, the smell of the harbor hit him like a slap. His pulse raced, dick throbbed, and his conscience clawed at the inside of his skull.

Stronger than ever. Sexier than ever. More dangerous than ever.

And hornier than a freshman at a cheerleader competition.

Zane wasn’t sure if he could help the city anymore—or just damn it one trembling salesgirl at a time.

A gorgeous socialite glided down the grimy avenues of South-Central New Avalon.

She looked spectacularly, entirely out of place—tall on three-inch Jimmy Choo pumps, a white Khaite dress whispering aristocracy, and a gray Victoria jacket for that “I own three yachts” shrug. Her Toteme clutch and tasteful jewelry winked in the sun like tiny, insolent lighthouses beaming vibes of money, attention, and absolute impunity.

Everything about her caught the afternoon sun—hair like polished ebony falling to the middle of her back, dusky skin that seemed polished without trying, cheekbones sharp enough to cut a man’s self-respect in twain. Aviator shades hid the exact expression in her eyes, but a small red bindi between her brows, despite a conspicuously bare ring finger, was the only hint of her origins or ethnicity.

A street bum at the door of a dive bar tried to straighten his rags when she passed, doffing an imaginary hat.

“Ma’am,” he croaked. “You don’t belong ‘round here. It ain’t safe.”

The woman inclined her head with the faintest smile—amused, indulgent—already aware she was being followed.

There were two of them. Not the kind one could ignore: a roided-up lug carrying a lead pipe and a jittery fox-girl partner whose notched triangular ears looked like she’d lost a very uneven fight with the world. The pair shoved through the crowd as though they owned the pavement. Where the socialite moved like a cloud, they were a couple of mangy bulldozers.

Their biker leathers and club patches marked them as persons of interest she planned to… question for information about an imminent gang war.

She watched them, ostensibly checking her makeup in a compact mirror, and then—without haste, with the serene cruelty of someone who treats danger like a sculptor treats stone—she drifted into the alley between a liquor store and Chang’s all-night takeaway.

The passage reeked of refuse and ten-day-old chow mein. A dumpster overflowed in epic proportions, and a colony of rats glowered at her like ragged, disapproving urchins. She flicked her lashes at them as if to say, Please, try me.

A burly silhouette blocked the mouth of the alley. The big one brandished his makeshift cudgel. His partner cracked her knuckles and bared her fangs with all the charm of a rusted wrench.

“Wrong turn, lady.” The thug rumbled. “Hand over the purse and the jewels, nice and easy. Nobody gets hurt.”

Silvejia—in the shallow disguise of a pampered diva—folded her hands on her clutch and let a slow grin play across her lips. The pretense of fear was a delicious instrument. She stepped back, coy and helpless, letting them swagger in out of sight of any witnesses.

“Get ’er, Gunner.” The shorter one snarled. “Fuck the rich bitch up. I wanna watch ’er bleed.”

The cracked grin on the little beastkin’s face flickered with something else—when Silvejia peered closer, she saw flames gutter at her fingertips. Pyromancy, low-level. Reckless. It made the speedster’s blood sing. This wasn’t just a mugging anymore; this would be a fight worth savoring.

Gunner lunged, free hand arcing for the necklace—a blue-sapphire lavalier Silvejia wore as bait. The world tipped into slow motion. She coiled, posture all sleek grace, ready to strike—

Then a shadow fell across the alley.

A giant blocked the entrance, sun blazing behind him, chest thrust forward, fists on hips like something out of a propaganda poster. His voice thundered,

“Halt, villains! Cease your, uh… felonious behavior, or face… um, the fist of justice?”

What began as a booming declaration faltered into a deflated question. Time hiccuped. Gunner froze mid-swing. The pyromancer blinked, her sneer slipping.

“Who the hell are you?” Gunner barked. “This is my turf. You’re trespassing. Fuck off.”

The would-be rescuer strode closer, his construction-worker getup straining to contain him. Steel-capped boots. Coveralls stuffed with muscle. Hard hat gleaming. He was immense, topping seven feet, and broad as the alley itself. He smelled of salt and soap and something else—something that prickled the skin, that reached into Silvejia and stroked her nerves raw.

Up close, he didn’t look like a superhero. But he did look like an answer.

“Whoa, man.” The goliath lifted his hands, palms out, shaking slightly. Sweaty. “Nobody wants trouble. Just let the pretty lady go, and we can all walk away. What do you say?”

Silvejia tilted her head.

There was a strangeness to him, a pull that pressed against her mind. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw a sickly yellow glow wreathing his massive frame—but then it was gone, a trick of light, surely. He moved like someone who could rip the world in two, yet his voice betrayed inexperience. Anxiousness.

New then. The mystery of it snared her. Her whip-thin body hummed for action.

Gunner snorted, scenting fear, emboldened. “We’ll take the bitch and what she’s got, then beat feet. You got a problem with that, asshole? Who the fuck are you supposed to be anyway?”

The fox-earred assailant’s bravado had dissolved; she squirmed in place, bottom lip caught between her teeth, staring at the man-mountain with a heated expression Silvejia recognized all too well.

“Hey Gunner, baby?” She whimpered, tugging at his arm. “Maybe we should drop it and—”

“Fuck that!” Gunner backhanded her into a pile of trash bags, rats scattering. She landed with a whimper, not rising. “When I ask a question, I expect a goddamn answer. Who the fuck are you?”

The alley froze. No one moved. Not even Silvejia. Her instincts screamed attack—but her curiosity burned hotter.

Who is this hunky stranger?

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