Era stood outside the closed door to the storage wing, her breath uneven. A pale blue blouse clung to her, the silk darkening at the spine where anxiety made her sweat. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingers shaking as voices from inside reached her—Lirian’s low timbre, warm and careful, and Marisol’s sharper, almost musical lilt. Era hovered, heart skipping. Marisol stepped out first, lean and elegant in gray linen, her gaze cool and knowing as it flicked over Era. “He’s all yours,” she murmured, lips curving, her eyes briefly narrowing as if she saw right through Era’s fluttering nerves.

Lirian followed, tall and stooped at the shoulders, golden hair falling into deep-set, haunted eyes. His clothes—always rumpled, paint-stained—seemed too soft for the sharp lines of his jaw. He glanced at Era, smile tired but genuine. “Is this about the Degas?” he asked, voice so gentle she felt her guard lower. His hand hovered near hers, not quite touching. Era nodded, her words catching: “I—I think the label’s wrong.” Lirian leaned closer, the brush of his sleeve against her arm deliberate and careful. “Come on. Show me.” Their fingers almost met as they moved into the stacks, and for a moment, she forgot how much she ached to be seen.

Veyron’s presence arrived before he did—his uneven footsteps, the jangle of keys, the storm in his eyes. She felt him before she saw him, predatory in black, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, a smudge of ink on the inside of his wrist. “You two always in here alone?” His voice was low, rough—dangerous. Lirian straightened, blue gaze meeting Veyron’s with a flicker of challenge, but Era shrank a little, the air turning tight. “He was helping me,” she offered quickly. Veyron’s lips twisted into a half-smile, dark and hungry. He stepped in, crowding into her space, and Era’s pulse hammered as he leaned close, the hint of his aftershave grounding and electric.

“You need so much saving, Era?” he whispered, heat threading through the threat. She looked up, eyes wide, letting herself drown for just a second in the possessiveness on his face. “I—I don’t—” she fumbled, breathless, and suddenly he pushed her gently but firmly back against a cold metal locker, caging her in with his body. His hands found her wrists, holding them just above her head. She gasped, trembling—caught between fear and longing. Their mouths met, frantic, teeth clashing. His tongue traced her lower lip, hers parting for him, surrendering to a need that felt bigger than reason.

Era’s hands twisted helplessly in his grip, the friction of his thumb on her pulse point almost cruel. She moaned low in her throat, wanting and terrified as he pressed against her, his body all muscle and heat, her skirt bunched at her hips. “Tell me you want this,” he growled, mouth on her jaw, stubble scraping her skin. For a moment, she froze—then she nodded, breathless. “I want—God, Veyron—” He kissed her harder, bruising, his control fraying around the edges.

When they finally broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen. His gaze raked over her—hungry, aching—and then softened. But the world came rushing back as the echo of footsteps sounded. Lirian, watching from the shadowed corner, his back rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Pain flickered across his face—a raw, flayed thing that made Era’s stomach twist. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes—so blue and broken—met hers, full of accusation and loss.

Before Era could move, Veyron released her, stepping away with a final, possessive glance. Lirian turned, his breath ragged. Marisol appeared at his side, her hand curling around his elbow, her whisper a blade: “You always let her slip away. Just like the fire.” He flinched, guilt contorting his features, and Era saw him shrink into himself, haunted by something she couldn’t quite name.

In the silence, Cael slipped in, unnoticed at first—leather jacket zipped to his chin, careless hair falling in his eyes. He leaned against a crate, arms folded, a sardonic smile masking exhaustion. “Hell of a show. Am I supposed to clap?” His words cut the tension, but there was an ache there—a loneliness that made him suddenly older. Lirian blinked, startled, and Cael’s face softened. “You okay, man?” he asked quietly. Lirian shook his head, ghosting a smile. “Are any of us?” Their laughter—brief, broken—felt like something fragile and new.

Era, gathering her bag, moved to leave. Veyron’s gaze burned after her, but he didn’t stop her. Lirian’s eyes followed, desperate, as Marisol murmured in his ear, her smile cold. Cael watched it all with a kind of resignation.

As Era reached the door, her phone buzzed. The screen flashed: an unknown number. One message, glowing cold—I know what you did. The truth always finds its way out.

Her hand trembled. She looked back once—three men staring after her, each love a wound.

To be continued...