Chapter 2

Blood was everywhere.

It pulsed between his fingers as he pressed desperately against the wound, warm and slipping through no matter how hard he tried to hold her together.

“Hey… hey, stay with me,” Maxton whispered, voice breaking. His chest heaved like he’d been running for miles, though his knees were fixed to the floor. “Don’t talk, Mom. Please—just stay with me. I’m calling 911 right now.”

Her trembling hand shot up, weak but urgent, smearing his shirt red. Her nails caught his skin, dragging him back down to her face.

“No… not the police,” she rasped, every word a razor scraping her throat. “Call your father. Nightstand… my room… diary. Number. Mason Trawling… your father…”

Her voice cracked, thin as smoke curling away.

“Mom, Please don’t die on me.” His words came out in ragged sobs, sharp and wild, like the world was collapsing into his lungs. He held her tighter, trying to will life into her with the sheer force of his breaking heart.

“Go… your father… they came for you… only he can protect you…”

“No!” His cry cracked like knowing how helpless he is. “I don’t need a father, Stay with me, Mom!”

But her strength was gone, her hand slipping from his. Her chest rose one last time before falling flat.

“I love you, Maxie…” Her whisper was barely there, a thread unraveling into silence.

Her eyes closed, her face drained of life, her warmth fading beneath his grip.

“Mom?” His voice softened into disbelief. He shook her gently. “Hey… Mom? Please—no, no,” He pulled her into his arms, sobbing into her hair, rocking her lifeless body. 

A flood of images slammed into his mind, her last memory flashed into him. A man—cold eyes, a black lethal jacket, the muzzle of a gun aimed steady. Two shots fired. The recoil never shook him. He smiled while killing her, as if death was a joke he’d told a million times.

The police arrived late, their presence hollow. They ran the perimeter, asked questions, gave him rehearsed condolences.

“We’re so sorry for your loss, Mr. Maxton. We’ll run the prints and get back to you.”

“Sure. Thank you,” he answered, voice flat, empty. His body was present, but his soul had been buried with her.

“You may want to reach out to your relatives. Let them know.”

Relatives? He scoffed.He had none. His life had been just her—and now just him.

Alone in her room, grief dragging his every movement, he tore through the nightstand drawers. On the last pull, his hand hit leather. It was the diary.

The name written inside was Mason Trawling.

A titan. A business mogul. A man untouchable, larger than life. Could that really be his father?

But the photo tucked between the pages left no room for denial. His mother’s smile, softer than he had ever seen it, pressed against the shoulder of a man he’d only seen on television. The love in her words on the pages cut him to the core. She had loved Mason—loved him enough to keep his existence a secret.

And Mason had never known about him.

Rage curled with grief in Maxton’s stomach, but her last words echoed in his head like a curse: They came for you. Only your father can protect you.

With trembling hands, he dialed the number written in her diary.

The line clicked alive. Silence stretched, breathing heavy, before a voice answered—deep, steady, commanding:

“…Clara?”

“She’s dead,” Maxton said, his tone flat, hollow, his hand shaking. “This is her son.”

Dryann pulled the hood of his jacket back as he stepped into his home, the weight of another hunt still clinging to his shoulders. The copper tang of blood from the night’s kill lingered faintly on him, even though he’d washed. A hunter by blood. By duty. By oath.

Born of the Blood Flame Clan, sworn to track and destroy rogues and the supernaturals the world pretended didn’t exist. His father, once Chief-In-Command, had died violently, and grief had carved Dryann into steel. He wore discipline like armor. He had find balance in love. In one man. his husband.

“Dan?” he called softly into the quiet house.

No answer. But the scent of grilled meat drifted from the backyard. A slow smile tugged at his lips. He knew where.

Out back, Daniel stood barefoot in shorts, hair wet from a recent shower, earphones in, humming off-key as he turned meat on a skewer. He hadn’t noticed Dryann until strong hands slid over his hips, squeezing his ass, a body pressing flush against his back.

Daniel moaned low, arching back into him.

“You heard me coming, didn’t you?” Dryann murmured, lips brushing his neck, fingers already slipping under the waistband of his shorts.

Daniel’s chuckle melted into a groan. “I’d miss your surprise welcome…” His voice caught as Dryann wrapped a hand around him, stroking slow, deliberate, cruelly teasing.

“Pass me the oil,” Dryann demanded, voice dark silk.

Daniel obeyed, handing him the bottle. Warm liquid coated his hand before Dryann worked him mercilessly—slow, then faster—until Daniel was panting, trembling, hips buckling against his grip.

“I—I’m close—” Daniel gasped.

And then Dryann pulled away, leaving him aching.

“What the—!” Daniel cursed, twisting to glare at him. But Dryann only smirked, turning toward the house.

“I’m tired from my trip,” he said over his shoulder. Wicked, taunting.

Daniel abandoned the grill instantly, chasing him inside. He found him in the bathroom, peeling his shirt off, that smirk still painted on his lips.

“You’re evil,” Daniel muttered, stripping fast, climbing into the tub after him.

“I do evil for a living,” Dryann replied darkly. His hand fisted in Daniel’s hair, forcing his head down, shoving his cock between his lips.

Daniel gagged, then gripped his hips hard, taking him deeper, swallowing, eager. Dryann’s groans filled the bathroom, raw, sharp.

“Faster,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. His hips thrust harder, deeper, until his back arched, and he spilled hot across Daniel’s mouth, his release hitting him like a storm.

Panting, chest heaving, Dryann looked down at him with a smirk carved like sin.

“That,” he said darkly, “is how I like my welcomes.”