Kai’s POV
The past never stays buried.
And neither does she.
The bar smelled like whiskey, cheap cigars, and bad decisions. A place where men came to drink away sins they’d commit again tomorrow.
Kai Valen had no business being here.
The deal was done. The papers were signed. Another man had learned the consequences of crossing him. He should have left.
Instead, he stayed.
Sat in the back corner, boot resting against the opposite seat, fingers curled around a half-empty glass. His men knew better than to ask why.
Because even he didn’t know why.
Until he saw her.
At first, his mind rejected it. A trick of the dim light. A ghost slipping through the cracks. He’d had those before, in the early years—the flicker of dark hair in a crowd, the echo of a laugh that wasn’t hers. His brain had tormented him with ghosts.
But this wasn’t that.
This was real.
Lena Mori.
Alive.
His entire body went still. The kind of stillness that came before violence.
She stood at the bar, her back mostly turned, moving with a carelessness that made his teeth clench. Pouring drinks. Smiling—smiling—at the man sitting across from her. A man who wasn’t him.
Something slow and dangerous curled in his chest.
Lena Mori had been dead for five years.
He’d searched for her. Weeks. Months. Dredged up every contact, chased every whisper, left trails of bodies in his wake.
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Until there was nothing left to chase.
Until there was no body to find.
So he did what he had to. He buried her.
Buried her in the quietest part of himself, in the place where he kept the things he refused to feel. Buried her so deep he had almost convinced himself she had never really existed at all.
And yet, here she was.
Like she hadn’t left him bleeding in the rain that night.
Like she hadn’t disappeared into nothing, leaving him to carve out the wreckage she left behind.
His grip tightened around his glass, slow and controlled. He breathed in, forcing the storm surging under his skin back beneath the surface.
A ghost had just walked back into his life.
And she had no idea he was watching.
Lena’s POV
She felt him before she saw him.
A shift in the air. The kind that sent a whisper of ice along her spine, coiling at the base of her throat.
Someone was watching her.
No. Not someone.
Him.
Lena knew before she turned.
Before she looked up and felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
Kai.
Her fingers tightened around the whiskey bottle—just for half a second. The smallest tell, invisible to anyone else. But she felt it. That single crack in the armor she had spent five years perfecting.
Five years of careful steps.
Five years of erased footprints.
Five years of making sure this moment never happened.
And yet—
She wasn’t ready.
She finished pouring the drink. Slid it across the counter to a man she couldn’t remember the name of. Moved with a control she no longer had.
Don’t react.
She had known this day would come. Had prepared for it. Had spent every second of the last five years conditioning herself for this exact moment.
And yet—
Her fingers curled around her own glass, steady but not steady enough. She lifted it to her lips, let the whiskey burn down her throat, and finally—finally—let herself turn.
And the world sharpened.
Kai Valen.
Older. Sharper. Colder.
The reckless boy she once knew was gone. In his place stood a man carved from steel and violence.
A man who looked at her with fire in his eyes and ice in his expression.
A man who looked at her like he had already decided what to do with her.
Fuck.
She swallowed the whiskey in one smooth motion. Let the burn settle in her chest. Let it remind her that she wasn’t that girl anymore.
And then—
“You look good for a dead girl.”
His voice. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.
Lena took a slow breath.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just set the glass down with a soft clink and met his gaze head-on.
“And you look exactly like someone who buried me.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. The first crack in his composure.
It wasn’t much. But she saw it.
She saw everything.
The cut of his suit, dark and expensive, like he was the only thing in this bar worth a damn. The tattoos peeking from beneath his cuff, inked in the same hands that once traced patterns down her spine.
The fire in his expression, barely leashed, burning through every inch of control.
Too much.
Too much history.
Too much weight in the space between them.
She turned back to the bar. Reached for the bottle again. Keep moving. Keep control.
“If you’re looking for a drink, I suggest finding another bartender.”
And then she walked away.
Or—tried to.
Because in the next second, his hand wrapped around her wrist.
Heat. Contact. Memory.
She froze.
Her pulse betrayed her.
Slowly, she turned back, their eyes locking again.
His grip was firm. Not tight. Not enough to bruise.
But enough to tell her he wasn’t letting go.
“You don’t get to walk away this time, Lena.”
Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs.
She met his gaze, let herself smirk. Let herself pretend it didn’t matter. That he didn’t matter.
“I already did.”
And she pulled her wrist free.
