CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER TWO.

Nova’s POV

Cassian had taken me in while his men worked on my car.

Kept me in a room that I haven’t had the privilege of exploring. 

I had assignments to do. Things to take pictures of. Documentary to film.

That was what brought me to the dessert.

I held my camera tightly with my elbow and stepped out.

The Crawl moon clubhouse doesn’t look like much from the road.

From a distance, it could be any  biker hangout you would rather not get caught dead in—a warehouse squatting on the edge of the desert, its windows blacked out, its parking lot filled by rows of bikes lined up beside each other. There’s a sign on the chain-link fence: No Trespassing. Underneath, in smaller red spray-paint: Seriously. Don’t.

So naturally, here I am.

The front door opens with a creak that feels like a warning than a faulty door. The smell hits me first—beer, smoke, leather, and different kinds of perfumes or none at all. The kind of smell that tells you no good thing has ever happened past this threshold.

Inside, the place hums. Music playing from a jukebox in the corner, but it’s drowned by the rise and fall of voices, the clink of bottles, the scrape of chair against the wooden floor.

Every head swivels when I step in.

It’s like dropping a rabbit into a den of wolves. The air thickens as everyone is staring at me then their gazes slid to the camera in my arms. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

Then the conversations resume, a low tide of voices and laughter, and I’m left with the heavy certainty that I have already been measured, weighed, and mostly dismissed.

Mostly.

Because his eyes find me.

Cassian leans against the far wall, bottle dangling from his hand. He’s barely in the light but there’s no mistaking the blue that catches when the jukebox light flares across his face. He doesn’t look surprised that I'm here. He looks like he knew I would come, just like my faulty car had spat me out just to land at his feet.

I tear my gaze away, because staring feels dangerous. Breathing feels dangerous. Existing feels dangerous.

I tell myself I’m just here because I don’t have a better option. My car’s still not good , my phone is still useless, and the universe clearly enjoys watching me squirm. This place is a bad idea wrapped in barbed wire, but bad ideas are all I had got left.

I move toward the bar, doing my best impression of someone who belongs when I clearly don’t.

The bartender is a woman with hair the color of orange and pink and arms with muscle. She doesn’t ask what I want—just raises a brow like she’s waiting for me to admit I made a wrong turn.

“Water,” I say.

One corner of her mouth twitches. But she fills a glass and slides it over. The water tastes faintly of rust and dust, but it’s cold, and that feels like a miracle.

I’m halfway through the glass when it happens.

It starts with a crash—a bottle shattering against the wall. A chair scrapes back. Two men square off in the center of the room.

Bar fights aren’t new to me. I have seen enough YouTube videos to know how it goes—shoves, fists, maybe a dramatic flip over a table if someone’s showing off.

This isn’t that.

The men move too fast. One lunges, the other meets him, and when they collide it’s with a force that rattles tables. There’s a guttural snarl—animal, not human and for a split second I swear I see teeth that look too sharp, too long.

The room doesn’t erupt into chaos the way you would expect. Nobody screams. Nobody rushes to stop it. The rest of the club just leans back, watches, like this is the evening’s entertainment.

My heart thunders against my ribs. The fight grows meaner—fists, claws, I can’t tell anymore. I blink, and I swear I see one man’s eyes flare gold. Not metaphorical gold. Not the way streetlights catch in pupils. Actual, glowing gold.

I grip my glass tighter, whisper to myself, “Nope. Nope, not possible.”

And then the bigger of the two men slams the other into a table so hard it splinters in half. The crowd roars approval.

I realize my legs are shaking.

And then—his voice.

“Out.”

Cassian.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t move. He just says the word, and the sound cuts through the room like the chaos was nothing compared to his voice.

The fighters freeze. One of them snarls low in his throat, but neither argues. They back off, breathing hard, blood on their knuckles, wounds on their skin. The crowd groans, disappointed.

And just like that, it’s over.

I don’t realize I have been holding my breath until I almost choke on it.

I raise my camera, trying to capture the aftermath of the fight when Cassian’s gaze finds me again. Always, it seems, it finds me. He pushes off the wall and walks over.

And I take a picture of him instead.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The words are low, quiet, like he is trying to seduce me. 

“Trust me,” I say, swallowing hard. “That makes two of us.”

He looks at my camera and raise a brow.

For a second, something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or amusement. Then it’s gone. He leans closer, blue eyes pinning me, and lowers his voice further.

“This place isn’t safe for you.”

“I gathered that,” I say, nodding toward the wreckage of the table. “Not exactly the friendliest Yelp review.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost. “Stay out of it.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re here.” His gaze darkens, and the way he says it makes it sound like a crime.

I should push back, should tell him I don’t need his warnings, his authority, his everything. But the words catch in my throat, because the truth is—I feel seen in a way I haven’t in years. Seen and cornered, yes, but mostly seen just.

And that’s almost worse.

I sip my water, though my hands are trembling, and pretend my world hasn’t already tilted on its axis.

Cassian doesn’t move away. He doesn’t touch me either. He just stands there, close enough that I can smell leather and smoke and something else.

Sandalwood? 

And I think. This is how it starts. This is how you lose yourself.