Heyyy, Sweet Babies 💕 This right here is the master list of chaos 😈 Just type in “Sinners Fanfics” and boom—you’ve got all my stories at your fingertips.
I’ll keep it updated (or at least try, don’t drag me if I’m late 😂). In the meantime, enjoy—and remember: peace, love, and extra dopenessss. ✨
Under Their Roof: Masterlist
Sιɳɳҽɾʂ αƚ ƚԋҽ Mυʂҽυɱ: ONE | TWO |THREE.ONE
ʟօʋɛʀ'ֆ ɨռ ʋɛɨռ: Masterlist
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 | Masterlist
On Her Terms: 1. The Proposition | 2. The Arrangement
Under His Protection | 1. The Offer | 2. Careful Instruction
First, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for sticking beside me during my hiatus, for checking in, for your patience, and for continuing to support ArtisticEsthetic even when I needed time away. Your love has never gone unnoticed, and I appreciate every single one of you more than you know.
I'm happy to share that I'm slowly making my way back to writing. 💛
As excited as I am to be creating stories again, I want to be honest and set expectations. It may take me a little while to get back into a consistent posting schedule. I'm easing myself back into everything, and I want to make sure I'm giving you stories that I can truly be proud of.
I also wanted to give you a heads-up that I'll be moving soon. Because of that, there will be about a week in late August where I won't be posting any new stories while I get settled into my new place. Once everything is unpacked and life slows down, I'll be back with fresh chapters and new content.
Thank you for giving me the grace to grow, rest, and return at my own pace. Your support means the world to me, and I'm so excited for this next chapter—not just for me, but for ArtisticEsthetic as a whole.
Stay tuned... because trust me, there's so much more coming to ArtisticEsthetic. 🤍✨
Under His Protection | (3 - FINALE) Terms & Consequences
A/N: Okay, sweet babies. This short series is inspired by @spaceprincess04 who wondered if our favorite bad boy turned vampire was either a man of the night or the man who supplies ladies of the night. With her permission, not only am I giving y'all Sex Toy!Stack Moore but also Big Daddy or Pimp!Stack Moore- yes, TWO new short series!!! Ya welcome, HOODLEMS !!!!
POV: Elias “Stack” Moore runs on rules—who he protects, what he allows, and what he never touches.
When he offers you safety, structure, and work without lies, you know the choice isn’t simple. He promises protection, not ownership. Control, not affection.
But Stack watches too closely. Steps in too fast. Cares in ways that break his own rules.
Because in a world built on survival, protection is easy. Want is the dangerous part.
Under His Protection is a slow-burn, morally gray series where safety becomes temptation—and the man who knows better might be the one thing you can’t afford.
Warning: Execution, jealousy, realization.
Word Count: 2371
Pairing: Big!Daddy Elias 'Stack' Moore x Thick!Black Reader
The first time she came back, Stack knew before she even stepped through the front door.
Not because of the envelope tucked beneath her arm.
Not because of the money.
Because she'd changed.
Only a little.
Enough that someone else would've missed it.
She walked straighter.
Her shoulders weren't as tense.
She'd learned how to command a room without raising her voice.
She wasn't pretending anymore.
She was working.
The women in the house greeted her with quiet smiles, some teasing her about finally "earning her stripes." She laughed, slipping off her coat before placing her envelope on the dining table where Stack always counted the night's earnings.
He looked at it.
Then at her.
"You eat?"
She nodded.
"You?"
"I'm askin' you."
"I did."
"Good."
That was all.
He never asked about the client.
Never asked what happened behind closed doors.
Never asked if she cried.
Or laughed.
Or hated it.
Those weren't his questions to ask.
And she respected him for that.
Weeks settled into routine.
She learned names.
Faces.
How to read a man before he opened his mouth.
Who tipped well.
Who lied.
Who drank too much.
Who wasn't worth the trouble.
She adapted quicker than anyone expected.
Sometimes she'd come home exhausted.
Sometimes amused.
Sometimes carrying stories she never shared.
Stack never pressed.
Instead, he'd count the money.
Slide her cut across the table.
"Good work."
Simple.
Professional.
Exactly the way he'd designed it.
Until one night...
He found himself wondering.
He hated wondering.
He hated wondering what some rich businessman had said to make her laugh.
He hated wondering if she'd smiled because she wanted to...
...or because she'd learned smiles were profitable.
He hated imagining another man's hand lingering too long on hers.
He hated it most because she always came home untouched in spirit.
She never looked broken.
She looked...
stronger.
That should've made him proud.
Instead—
It made something ugly bloom beneath his ribs.
Jealousy.
Quiet.
Embarrassing.
Possessive in ways he despised.
He caught himself watching her from across rooms.
Listening for her laugh.
Checking the clock whenever she was running late.
He'd built this business on discipline.
Now he couldn't keep his own mind in line.
"You've been starin'."
Her voice startled him.
She stood in the kitchen doorway, mug of tea warming her hands.
He looked away.
"I wasn't."
She smiled knowingly.
"Liar."
He chuckled despite himself.
"You countin' how many times I blink?"
"Nah."
She leaned against the doorway.
"I'm countin' how many times you forget I notice things."
Silence.
Then—
"You been hovering."
"I've been managing."
"You been checking every room I walk into."
"I'm checking everybody."
"No."
She smiled softly.
"Just me."
That landed.
He had no answer.
Because she was right.
He didn't understand it.
He'd met beautiful women.
Confident women.
Dangerous women.
He'd worked beside them.
Protected them.
Buried some of them.
He never crossed the line.
Never even looked at it.
So why...
Why did the thought of someone else looking at her too long make his jaw tighten?
Why did every successful night feel like victory...
...and loss?
He couldn't explain it.
He only knew that somewhere between teaching her the rules...
She'd quietly rewritten his.
It happened on a Thursday.
The client had been vetted.
Old money.
Regular.
Never caused trouble.
Until he did.
Stack had barely made it down the hallway before he heard furniture scrape across hardwood.
Then—
"No."
Her voice.
Firm.
Again—
"I said no."
The sound changed.
A struggle.
A crash.
Stack didn't think.
The door burst inward so hard it slammed against the wall.
The man barely had time to turn before Stack crossed the room.
One punch.
Another.
The client stumbled backward, cursing, reaching for anything he could grab.
Wrong choice.
Stack caught him by the collar and drove him against the wall.
"You forgot the first rule."
The man's eyes widened.
"W-what rule—"
"When she says no..."
His grip tightened.
"...the conversation's over."
The room fell silent except for the man's ragged breathing.
Stack's voice never rose.
It didn't have to.
"You don't touch what's unwilling."
The client swung wildly.
Stack stepped aside.
The punch missed.
His answer didn't.
The man collapsed to the floor, groaning.
Security, alerted by the commotion, rushed in.
Stack looked at them once.
"Get him out."
No one argued.
Only then did he remember she was still there.
She'd backed herself into the far corner of the room, wrapped around herself, breathing hard.
Fear lingered in her eyes—not because of him.
Because she'd been reminded how quickly safety could disappear.
Stack looked away first.
He removed his suit jacket from the coat rack by the door.
Walked over slowly.
Held it out.
No sudden movements.
No assumptions.
She looked from the jacket...
...to him.
"You alright?"
She nodded once.
A lie.
He draped the jacket over her shoulders anyway, careful not to touch more than necessary.
"It ain't your fault," he said quietly.
Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat.
For a brief second...
She looked at him as though she'd never truly seen him before.
Not as the man with rules.
Not as the man with money.
But as the man who stepped between her and danger without asking what it might cost him.
"Let's go home."
She nodded.
The house had gone quiet by midnight.
The other women slept upstairs.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Stack sat in the living room with a glass of untouched whiskey.
He hadn't taken a sip.
She found him there.
"You mind?"
He gestured toward the opposite end of the leather couch.
She sat.
Neither spoke for a while.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
Just tired.
"You okay?" he finally asked.
She looked down at the sleeves of his jacket, still wrapped around her.
"I will be."
He nodded.
"I'm glad."
She looked over.
Only then did she notice the split in his lip.
"You got hit."
"It's nothin'."
"It doesn't look like nothin'."
Before he could protest again, she stood and crossed to the bookshelf, retrieving the small first-aid kit tucked behind a row of worn novels.
Stack sighed.
"I said I'm fine."
"You say that too much."
She returned and sat beside him.
Closer this time.
She opened the kit, dampened a cloth, and gently lifted his chin.
He stayed still.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
Her touch was careful.
Unhurried.
She dabbed away the dried blood, apologizing quietly whenever he winced.
"You don't have to apologize," he murmured.
"I know."
"Then why do it?"
"'Cause I don't like seeing people I care about hurt."
The words settled between them.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them looked away.
For a fleeting moment, the room felt impossibly small.
He reached up instinctively, covering her hand with his.
Their eyes met.
He leaned forward just enough to brush a gentle kiss against her forehead.
It lingered for only a heartbeat.
Then reality rushed back in.
Stack stood abruptly.
Too fast.
He cleared his throat, straightening the front of his vest as though fixing the wrinkles might somehow settle the storm inside him.
"You should get some sleep."
She blinked.
"What?"
"It's late."
"Stack..."
He couldn't look at her.
"Goodnight."
She rose halfway from the couch, confused.
"Did I do something?"
"No."
His answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
"You didn't do a damn thing."
He walked toward the hallway.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
She watched him disappear behind the corner, questions lingering in the silence he'd left behind.
Sleep never came.
Stack stood alone in his office, looking over the ledger he'd read three times without seeing a single number.
He'd built rules for a reason.
Rules protected everyone.
Rules kept business clean.
Rules kept hearts out of places they had no business being.
He looked toward the hallway where her room sat in the darkness.
For the first time in years...
He questioned his own system.
Keeping her close meant she stayed under his protection.
Letting her stay meant every feeling he refused to name would keep growing.
And feelings...
Feelings got people hurt.
He stared out the rain-speckled window as dawn threatened the horizon.
He had built every rule to keep his heart out of it.
He never imagined she would become the one thing capable of breaking every last one.
Morning came slow.
Not bright—not clean—just a gray kind of daylight that pressed itself through the curtains like it wasn’t fully sure it belonged there.
The house was quieter than usual.
Even the floorboards felt like they were trying not to speak too loudly.
Stack was already awake.
Had been for hours.
He stood in the kitchen in a white undershirt and slacks, sleeves pushed up, coffee going cold in his hand. He hadn’t touched it in a while. Just held it like it gave him something to do with his thoughts.
Sleep hadn’t come.
Not really.
Just fragments of it. Half-dreams. Half-regret.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her in corners of rooms she didn’t belong in—until she did.
That was the part that bothered him most.
Not that she was there.
That she was adapting.
Becoming familiar with a world that was never supposed to feel familiar.
He set the mug down.
Then picked it back up.
Then set it down again, like he couldn’t decide whether stillness meant peace… or consequence.
From upstairs came the soft sound of movement.
A door opening.
Light footsteps.
Barely there.
He didn’t turn around right away.
He already knew.
She came down the stairs slowly, wrapped in one of his jackets again—different one this time. Hair slightly undone, face bare, no performance, no armor. Just her. The version of her that existed before the world asked her to be anything else.
She paused when she saw him.
“You been up all night,” she said softly.
It wasn’t a question.
He finally looked at her.
“I been thinkin’.”
That made her stop on the last step.
“That don’t sound like you.”
A faint breath left him that almost resembled a laugh.
“Yeah. That’s the problem.”
Silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything neither of them had said the night before.
She walked into the kitchen slowly, like she was giving him space to change his mind about whatever version of him was standing there.
“You still mad?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then what?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Like he was weighing something he couldn’t afford to drop.
“I don’t like what I’m startin’ to feel,” he admitted finally.
Her expression shifted—just slightly. Not fear. Not surprise.
Understanding.
“That why you been actin’ funny?”
He nodded once.
“I built this whole thing so I wouldn’t get attached to it.”
She leaned against the counter across from him.
“And now?”
His jaw tightened.
“Now I can’t tell if I’m protectin’ you… or keepin’ you close ‘cause I want to.”
That honesty sat heavy in the room.
Neither of them rushed to fill it.
She studied him for a while.
Not the way clients did.
Not the way the world did.
But like she was reading the parts of him he didn’t present on purpose.
Then she spoke, calm as ever.
“You know I’m still me, right?”
He looked up.
“I’m not yours, Stack.”
That word—yours—didn’t land like a warning.
It landed like a boundary drawn carefully, without anger.
“I know,” he said immediately.
“I’m still leavin’ when I want to.”
“I know that too.”
“I still got choices.”
“I never took ‘em from you.”
A pause.
Then she nodded once.
“Good.”
Another silence.
But this one was different.
Less tension.
More truth.
She stepped closer—not enough to close the space fully, just enough that the air between them changed.
“I ain’t scared of you,” she said quietly.
His eyes held hers.
“I know.”
“But I am scared of what you think you gotta be to keep me safe.”
That hit deeper than anything else that night.
His gaze dropped for a second.
Because she was right.
He didn’t trust softness.
Didn’t trust wanting.
Didn’t trust the way something in him had started to shift without permission.
When he looked back up, his voice was quieter.
“I don’t know how to do this part.”
“Then don’t overthink it,” she said simply. “Just don’t lie to me. And don’t turn me into somethin’ you think you gotta control to keep me alive.”
That word again—control.
He exhaled through his nose, slow.
“I never wanted that.”
“I know.”
She reached for his mug, took it, and finally drank it herself like it belonged in her hands just as much as his.
“You just scared,” she added.
He didn’t argue.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Somewhere upstairs, a door opened again.
A woman called out sleepily.
Life moving forward around them like nothing had changed.
But something had.
It just hadn’t fully decided what shape it would take yet.
Stack watched her set his mug back down carefully.
“You still comin’ back?” he asked.
She smiled faintly.
“Depends if you still runnin’ things like a man or startin’ to feel like one.”
A beat.
Then—
“I’ll be back,” she said. “On my terms.”
He nodded.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She headed toward the door.
Then paused.
Looked back at him.
“Stack?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t gotta choose between protectin’ me and feelin’ somethin’.”
That lingered.
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut softly behind her.
Stack stayed where he was.
Still.
Quiet.
The house breathed around him again, same as always.
But nothing in him did.
Because for the first time since this whole thing started…
He understood the real risk wasn’t losing control of the business.
It was realizing he never had control of himself to begin with.
And now that he’d felt it—
He couldn’t unfeel it.
He looked down at the empty mug in his hand.
Then toward the door she’d just walked through.
And for the first time…
he didn’t know if keeping her safe meant keeping her close…
A/N: Okay, sweet babies. This short series is inspired by @spaceprincess04 who wondered if our favorite bad boy turned vampire was either a man of the night or the man who supplies ladies of the night. With her permission, not only am I giving y'all Sex Toy!Stack Moore but also Big Daddy or Pimp!Stack Moore- yes, TWO new short series!!! Ya welcome, HOODLEMS !!!!
In this short series, we will see how Stack made him and his twin's money with what the lord blessed him with.
POV: Elias “Stack” Moore knows how to survive—but survival has a price.
When a woman with money, control, and unnerving calm offers him an arrangement, Stack recognizes the danger immediately. No romance. No promises. Just discretion, generosity, and rules he didn’t write. He can leave whenever he wants.
He tells himself he’s only there for the money. He tells himself control is something he can give without losing.
But surrender has a way of teaching men what they crave—and what follows them long after they walk away.
Warning: None
Word Count: 1301
Pairing: Charlotte Fitzgerald x Elias Moore!Pretty Boy Stack
Little Rock had begun to feel smaller.
Not because the streets had changed, but because Elias Moore had.
The city still smelled of tobacco and rain-soaked brick. Men still gathered around card tables believing luck would remember their names. Jazz still drifted from basement clubs after sundown. Nothing about Little Rock had moved.
He had.
The envelope Charlotte had given him weeks before sat tucked neatly inside the top drawer of the dresser in his apartment. Most of it was still there, carefully divided into stacks. Rent paid. New suits purchased. Shoes that fit. A proper overcoat.
For the first time in months, he wasn't surviving.
He was preparing.
Smoke noticed.
"You've been countin' that money every night," his older twin muttered from across the apartment, folding another shirt into a weathered suitcase.
"I'm countin' what it'll get us."
Smoke smirked.
"It'll get us outta Arkansas."
"That's the idea."
The apartment looked emptier than it had a week ago. Books boxed. Extra dishes wrapped in newspaper. A lifetime reduced to what two men could carry north.
Chicago.
The name had become less of a dream and more of a destination.
Smoke snapped the suitcase shut.
"I got word from Levi."
Stack looked up.
"He says there's work."
"What kind?"
"The kind that pays."
Stack nodded once.
That was enough.
Smoke leaned against the table, studying his brother.
"You gonna tell her?"
There it was.
The question Stack had been avoiding.
He looked toward the window instead.
"I owe her that."
Smoke didn't argue.
He simply nodded.
"Then tell her."
—
Fitzgerald Manor looked exactly as it had the first evening he'd arrived.
The same iron gate.
The same polished windows.
The same impossible stillness that made the rest of the city seem loud.
The older housekeeper answered before Stack had finished lowering his hand from the door.
"Mr. Moore."
"Evenin'."
"Miss Fitzgerald is expecting you."
Of course she was.
He followed the familiar hallway one last time.
Every step felt known now.
Not because he'd walked it often, but because he'd stopped wondering where it led.
Charlotte stood in the library instead of the drawing room.
Books climbed every wall from floor to ceiling. Afternoon light had long since disappeared, leaving only warm lamps and the soft crackle of a fire.
She was reading when he entered.
She finished the page before closing the book.
"I wondered how long it would take."
Stack smiled faintly.
"You knew."
"I suspected."
She gestured toward the chair across from her.
He sat.
For a while neither of them spoke.
The silence between them had changed over the weeks.
It no longer felt uncertain.
It felt earned.
Finally, Stack broke it.
"My brother and I are leaving."
Charlotte folded her hands in her lap.
"For Chicago."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I thought so."
"You ain't surprised."
"No."
She regarded him quietly.
"You've been standing differently."
He blinked.
"I have?"
"The first night you came here," she said, "you stood like a man waiting for permission."
She tilted her head.
"Today..."
A small smile appeared.
"...you stand like a man making a decision."
Stack looked down at his hands.
"I guess I am."
Charlotte nodded.
"I never expected Little Rock to keep you."
"No?"
"No."
She rose from her chair and walked toward the window.
"You're too curious."
He chuckled softly.
"That's one way to put it."
"It's the truthful way."
The room settled again.
"I wanted to thank you," Stack said after a moment.
She looked over her shoulder.
"For what?"
He searched for the answer.
The money had mattered.
It had changed everything.
But it wasn't the first thing that came to mind.
"You never lied to me."
Charlotte smiled.
"No."
"You never made promises."
"I don't believe in promises."
"You never treated me like I belonged to you."
At that, she turned fully toward him.
"Elias."
Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it.
"You were never mine."
The words landed gently.
"I paid for your time."
She stepped closer.
"For your attention."
Another step.
"For your trust."
She stopped beside his chair.
"But none of those things are ownership."
Stack looked up at her.
"I know that now."
"I hoped you would."
She rested one gloved hand lightly on the back of the chair—not on him.
"Power is misunderstood."
He listened.
"Most people think power is taking."
She shook her head once.
"It isn't."
"It's choosing?"
Charlotte's smile widened ever so slightly.
"It's knowing when someone has given you something freely..."
She paused.
"...and having the discipline not to ask for more."
The room fell silent again.
Stack realized then that every lesson she'd given him had been pointing here.
Not toward submission.
Toward choice.
She crossed to a small writing desk and opened a drawer.
From it she withdrew a cream-colored envelope.
Different from the others.
Thinner.
She handed it to him.
Inside was a folded note.
A name.
An address.
A handwritten introduction.
"My cousin owns interests in Chicago," she explained. "Warehouses. Clubs. Shipping."
Stack looked up.
"He owes me several favors."
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
She interrupted him gently.
"This isn't payment."
"What is it?"
"A door."
He unfolded the paper again.
"If you choose to open it."
His throat tightened.
"I appreciate it."
"I know."
She moved back toward the fireplace.
"I have one condition."
He waited.
"When you arrive in Chicago..."
"...don't become a man who mistakes control for strength."
Stack frowned slightly.
Charlotte continued.
"The strongest people I've ever known could surrender when surrender served them."
Her eyes met his.
"And they could walk away the moment it no longer did."
Something inside him settled.
That...
That was the lesson.
Not obedience.
Not dominance.
Choice.
Always choice.
He slipped the letter safely inside his coat.
"I'll remember."
"I expect you will."
He stood.
"So..."
Charlotte said with a quiet smile.
"...this is goodbye."
"I reckon it is."
Neither of them moved immediately.
There was nothing left to negotiate.
Nothing left unsaid.
She extended her hand.
Not as an employer.
Not as a lover.
Simply as Charlotte Fitzgerald.
Stack looked at it for a brief moment before taking it.
Her handshake was firm.
Brief.
Respectful.
"Safe travels, Mr. Moore."
"Thank you..."
He smiled.
"...Charlotte."
She inclined her head.
Then she let go.
No lingering.
No tears.
No request that he stay.
Because they both understood the arrangement had succeeded precisely because it knew when to end.
—
The train station smelled of coal smoke and damp iron.
Smoke hefted their luggage onto the platform before looking over at his brother.
"You ready?"
Stack glanced back once.
Little Rock stretched behind them in brick, dust, and memory.
He thought about the first night he'd stood outside Fitzgerald Manor with a card in his pocket and more pride than sense.
He thought about every conversation that had followed.
Every lesson.
Every choice.
Then he looked north.
"Yeah."
Smoke clapped him once on the shoulder.
"Chicago ain't ready for the Moore twins."
Stack laughed.
"No."
He picked up his suitcase.
"But we'll be ready for it."
The whistle blew.
The train lurched forward.
Two brothers stepped aboard carrying everything they owned.
One carried experience.
The other carried plans.
And Elias Moore carried something neither suitcase could hold.
He hadn't sold himself.
He had learned the difference between being chosen and being owned.
He had learned that power could be taken by force—but it could also be offered with trust.
More importantly, he had learned that the freedom to walk away was worth more than any amount of money.
As Little Rock disappeared behind the smoke of the departing train, Chicago waited somewhere beyond the horizon.
And Elias Moore met it not as a man searching for himself—
but as one who already knew exactly what he would never give away again.
Elias “Stack” Moore thought eternity was unshakable—until Pamela Williams arrived. In the 1990s, while Sammie grows old, Stack and Mary remain timeless, bound by blood and passion. But Pamela is no ordinary woman; a daywalker, radiant and dangerous, she awakens in Stack a hunger beyond blood—one that could unravel love, loyalty, and eternity itself.
POV: Elias “Stack” Moore thought eternity was unshakable—until Pamela Williams arrived. In the 1990s, while Sammie grows old, Stack and Mary remain timeless, bound by blood and passion. But Pamela is no ordinary woman; a daywalker, radiant and dangerous, she awakens in Stack a hunger beyond blood—one that could unravel love, loyalty, and eternity itself.
A/N: Haiiii, sweet babies. It has been a while but due to not working anymore and trying to get my business up and running, I have been going through alot. Here is the second to final chapter of the series and trust me... it's a good one
Warning: Heartbreak, jealousy, guns, blood and DEATH.
Song Recommendation: I Heard It Through the Grapevine by Marvin Gaye
Word Count: 9390
Evening settled heavy over the city, thick with clouds that refused to break. The sky hung low and gray, like it was carrying something it didn’t know how to let go of.
Pamela stood at her bedroom window, still as a statue.
Her fingers rested lightly against the glass, nails tapping once… twice… then going still again. Outside, the world moved like nothing had happened—cars passing, distant voices, life continuing in a way that felt almost offensive.
Inside? Everything felt wrong. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the glass. Hair falling loose around her shoulders. Eyes no longer glowing, no fangs in sight—but there was nothing human about the grief sitting behind them. Her jaw tightened.
Leo’s face flashed in her mind again. Gray. Still. Empty.
The way his body had felt in her arms—too light. Too quiet. Too gone. Pamela squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, but it only made it worse. The smell. Metallic. Thick. Clinging to her like it hadn’t washed off no matter how long she stood under the water earlier. Her stomach turned. Then came the second wave. Her home.
Her safe place. Violated. Her eyes opened again slowly, gaze drifting from the window to the reflection of her bedroom behind her. Even from here, she could still see the faint signs—things slightly out of place, things that didn’t sit right no matter how much they were fixed.
They came in here. Walked through her space. Touched things that belonged to her. A muscle in her cheek twitched. And Cleo—
Pamela’s breath hitched, just slightly. Her fingers curled against the glassThat tiny flash of red on the floor earlier. The panic. The way her heart had nearly stopped in her chest before she heard that soft, fragile meow.
Her baby could’ve been gone too. The thought alone made something dark stir low in her chest. Not sadness this time. Something sharper. Colder. Behind her, the low hum of movement filled the apartment. Voices—quiet, respectful.
Furniture shifting. The soft scrape of wood against floor. Pearly hadn’t taken no for an answer. Within an hour, half the club’s security team had been in Pamela’s penthouse, working silently to put everything back the way it was. Big men moving carefully, like they understood they weren’t just fixing a room—they were stepping into something sacred.
One of them lifted the couch back into place, adjusting it inch by inch until it sat just right. Another replaced the curtains, smoothing the fabric like he was afraid to wrinkle it wrong. Nobody joked. Nobody spoke louder than they had to. Even they could feel it. Pamela didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. She just stood there, staring out into that heavy sky like she might find an answer in it. Or maybe a warning. Her hand dropped slowly from the glass, falling to her side. Her shoulders squared—subtle, but intentional. Whoever did this…
Knew her. Knew where she lived. Knew how to get in.
And worst of all—
They weren’t afraid of her.
Pamela’s eyes darkened, her reflection staring back colder now.
“Big mistake…” she murmured under her breath, voice low and steady.
Behind her, a lamp flickered back on.
A table set upright.
The illusion of normal slowly rebuilding itself piece by piece.
But Pamela knew better.
Nothing about this was back to normal.
Not anymore.
And she didn’t move from that window.
Not yet.
Across town, the apartment was quiet in a way that felt almost borrowed.
The TV filled the space with low noise—voices, canned laughter from a show Mary wasn’t really watching. She sat curled at the end of the couch, her legs stretched out across Stack’s lap, a blanket draped loosely over her knees. The glow from the screen painted soft colors across her face as she absentmindedly flipped through channels.
Stack sat back against the cushions, one arm resting along the back of the couch while his other hand moved slow and steady along the arch of her foot. His touch was automatic—familiar. Something he’d done a hundred times before without thinking.
But tonight…
He wasn’t there.
Not really.
His eyes were on the TV, but they weren’t seeing it. His mind was somewhere else entirely—caught in the echo of a touch, the memory of a voice, the weight of something he couldn’t quite name.
Mary clicked the remote again.
The channel changed.
“…—breaking news out of downtown late last night—”
She paused.
Stack didn’t react.
“…local shop owner Leonard ‘Leo’ Carter was found deceased inside his store, ‘Leo’s Finds & Curiosities,’ under what authorities are calling suspicious circumstances—”
Mary’s brows pulled together, her attention snapping into place. “Oh my God…”
Stack’s hand slowed… but didn’t stop.
On the screen, the reporter stood outside the shop, lights flashing faintly behind her. Police tape stretched across the entrance. The name of the store echoed again.
“Leo’s Finds & Curiosities.”
Something tugged.
Soft at first.
Then sharper.
Stack’s fingers stilled slightly against Mary’s foot.
“…friends and community members describe Carter as a beloved figure—kind, generous, always willing to lend a hand—”
Mary shook her head, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “That’s so sad… oh my God, that’s so sad…”
Still—
Stack hadn’t fully tuned in.
Not yet.
“…we’ve received several photos from loved ones—”
The screen shifted.
A picture flashed.
Leo—smiling wide, younger, full of life.
Then another.
Older. Same warmth.
Another.
Standing behind the counter of his shop.
Stack’s eyes flickered.
Focus starting to sharpen.
And then—
The next photo appeared.
Leo again.
But this time…
He wasn’t alone.
Pamela.
Her lips pressed against his cheek, her eyes half-lidded in that effortless, confident warmth she carried. Leo grinning like the moment meant everything.
Stack froze.
Completely.
His hands stopped moving on Mary’s feet—just… stopped.
His eyes locked onto the screen like something had reached through it and grabbed him by the throat.
Pamela.
There she was.
Real.
Connected.
Not some passing moment in a smoky club.
Not just a feeling.
His chest tightened.
The room felt… off.
Shifted.
Like the air had changed without asking permission.
“…investigators have not released further details, but sources say the scene showed signs of—”
The reporter kept talking.
Mary kept watching.
But Stack didn’t hear any of it.
All he saw—
Was her.
His jaw clenched.
A strange, uneasy weight settled deep in his gut.
Something wasn’t right.
He didn’t know how he knew—
He just did.
He tried to shake it off, shifting slightly, dragging his hand back across Mary’s foot like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just gone still.
Like something hadn’t just pulled tight inside him.
But it didn’t go away.
It stayed.
Heavy.
Persistent.
Mary glanced down, frowning slightly. “…Stack?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Stack.”
He blinked, like he was coming back from somewhere far off. “Yeah?”
“You okay?” she asked softly, studying him now.
There was a pause.
A beat too long.
Then he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good.”
But his voice didn’t quite land right.
Mary’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer, not fully convinced.
Stack shifted, gently moving her legs off his lap as he stood. “I’m—uh… I’m gonna hit the bathroom real quick.”
Mary nodded slowly. “Okay…”
He didn’t wait.
Didn’t look back.
Just turned and walked down the short hallway, his steps a little quicker than usual.
The bathroom door shut behind him with a soft click.
And for a moment—
The apartment felt quieter than before.
The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead.
Stack stood at the sink, both hands braced against the porcelain, head hanging low for a second like he was trying to catch something slipping through his fingers.
Then he looked up.
His reflection stared back at him—steady, familiar… but his eyes weren’t right. Too distant. Too caught up in something he couldn’t name.
He swallowed.
You trippin’.
His jaw flexed as he leaned in just a little closer, studying himself like the answer might be sitting right there in his own face.
But it wasn’t.
All he could see—
Was her.
Pamela.
The way she looked on that screen. The way she looked last night. The way she felt—
His fingers tightened on the edge of the sink.
She knew him…
That thought stuck.
Sat heavy.
His eyes dropped for a second, then lifted again slowly.
You think she okay?
A beat.
His chest rose with a quiet breath.
…she didn’t look like the type to break easy…
Another beat.
His thumb dragged absentmindedly along the edge of the counter.
But that don’t mean nothin’.
His gaze softened, just slightly.
Damn…
He let out a quiet exhale through his nose.
I should go see her.
The thought came quick.
Too quick.
And it stayed.
Just make sure she straight… that’s it.
His lips pressed together.
Yeah… just check on her.
But even as he thought it—
He knew it wasn’t just that.
His eyes flickered, something deeper pulling beneath the surface.
…I miss her.
The admission sat there, uninvited.
Uncomfortable.
True.
Stack straightened a little, shaking his head once like he could knock the thought loose.
“Man…” he muttered under his breath.
He reached forward, turning the faucet on.
Water rushed out, loud in the small space.
He leaned down, cupping his hands, letting them fill before bringing the water up to his face—
Splash.
Cold.
Sharp.
He inhaled through his nose, trying to reset.
Trying to clear his head.
Another splash—
But this time—
Something wasn’t right.
For a split second—
The water wasn’t clear.
It was red.
Thick.
Too dark.
Stack jerked back, breath catching in his throat as his hands dropped instantly.
“What the—”
He blinked hard.
The sink—
Normal.
Clear water rushing like nothing happened.
He stared at it, chest rising a little faster now.
“…nah.”
He shut the faucet off, grabbing a towel, dragging it across his face rougher than needed.
“Get it together…”
But as the fabric passed over his eyes—
Another flash.
Glass.
Shattering.
Blood smeared across something white—
Stack froze mid-motion.
The towel still pressed against his face.
His breath slowed.
“…the hell…”
He lowered it slowly.
Looked back at the mirror.
And it hit him again.
Harder.
The reflection wasn’t just him anymore—
It flickered.
Pamela.
Fast.
Violent.
Her body moving through a bar—chairs knocked over, bottles breaking, her fists connecting with something out of frame. Her eyes glowing white, fangs bared—
Gone.
Back to him.
Stack’s brows pulled tight, confusion flashing across his face. “Nah… nah, what—”
He shook his head once.
Hard.
Like he could force it out.
But it only came back stronger.
Another flash—
Pamela again.
This time slower.
Closer.
She was on her back—
Breathing heavy.
Chest rising and falling sharp.
Her white eyes locked upward at something above her—
Something standing over her—
And in the reflection of those glowing eyes—
A figure.
Blurred.
But clear enough.
Holding—
A wooden stake.
Stack’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“No—”
He stepped back so fast his hip bumped the counter.
The image snapped away.
Gone.
Just him.
Just the bathroom.
Just the quiet hum of the light.
His chest rose and fell, uneven now.
“What the fuck was that…” he whispered, more to himself than anything.
He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head again, harder this time.
It ain’t real.
It ain’t real.
But it felt real.
Too real.
He pushed off the counter, not wanting to stand there another second.
Not wanting to look at that mirror again.
His hand grabbed the doorknob, twisting it open—
And Mary was right there.
Standing just outside.
Her hand half-raised like she’d been about to knock.
Her face tight with concern. “Elias… you sure you okay?”
Stack barely paused.
Didn’t meet her eyes for long.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, brushing past her. “I’m good.”
Too quick.
Too easy.
Mary turned slightly, watching him as he walked away down the hall, his steps just a little too stiff, too fast.
Her brows furrowed.
She leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms slowly.
Her gaze lingered on his back.
Something wasn’t right.
And she knew it.
Pamela stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the last gold clasp at her wrist.
For a moment—just a moment—she didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
Not because she looked different.
But because she felt… harder.
Her leather shorts jumpsuit hugged her frame like it was made for her, rich and dark with that unmistakable 70s edge—bold, unapologetic. The neckline dipped just enough, her waist cinched just right. Knee-high boots fit snug against her legs, heels clicking softly against the floor as she shifted her weight. Her trench coat rested over her arm, sleek and ready.
Her curls were fluffed to perfection—big, soft, powerful.
Gold caught the light at every turn—ears, neck, wrists.
She looked like herself again.
Or at least…
Something close to it.
Behind her, Pearly sat on the couch, gently stroking Cleo, who was curled up but alert—green eyes watching Pamela like she knew something wasn’t right.
Pearly’s gaze lifted slowly, taking Pamela in from head to toe.
“…Pam.”
Pamela didn’t turn.
She reached for her perfume instead, spraying lightly at her neck.
“You really about to go to work?” Pearly asked, voice softer now—but laced with concern.
Pamela’s movements didn’t pause.
“I need to,” she said simply.
No eye contact.
No hesitation.
Pearly frowned. “Girl… after everything that just happened? Leo—your home—”
“I said I need to,” Pamela cut in, sharper this time.
The room went quiet.
Cleo shifted slightly in Pearly’s lap.
Pearly exhaled, slow, trying again. “Pammie… you ain’t gotta do this tonight. Stay here. Rest. Let folks handle things for once—”
“Leave it alone, Pearly.”
That did it.
The firmness in Pamela’s voice landed heavy.
Not loud.
But final.
Pearly leaned back slightly, lips pressing together as she studied her friend.
Pamela finally turned—but only halfway. Not enough to fully face her.
A beat passed.
Then—
“…I’m sorry,” Pamela muttered.
It came quieter.
Real.
Pearly’s expression softened almost instantly. “I know, baby…”
Pamela nodded faintly, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second.
Then she took a slow breath in.
And let it out.
Her mind flickered—not to the club, not to work—
But to Pearly.
To Cleo.
To the smell.
To the destruction.
To Leo.
Something tightened in her chest again—but this time, she pushed it down.
Handled it.
Controlled it.
Pamela turned fully now, walking toward her dresser.
She opened a drawer.
Reached inside.
And when she turned back—
There it was.
A silver gun.
Clean.
Heavy.
Intentional.
Pearly’s brows shot up. “Pam…”
Pamela held it out to her.
“You gon’ need this.”
Pearly blinked. “…I ain’t takin’ that.”
“You are.”
“Pam—”
“I said you are.”
The edge in Pamela’s voice came back—but this time it wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
Dressed up as control.
Pearly hesitated, looking from the gun to Pamela’s face.
And that’s when she saw it.
Not anger.
Not attitude.
Protection.
“…Pamela—”
“Take it, Pearly.”
Softer now.
But somehow even more serious.
A long pause.
Then slowly—
Pearly reached out and took it.
“…you doin’ too much,” she murmured, but there was no fight left in it.
Pamela didn’t respond.
She just stepped forward and pulled Pearly into a tight hug.
The kind that lingered a second too long.
The kind that said everything she wasn’t saying out loud.
Pearly hugged her back just as tight.
“Be careful,” Pearly whispered.
Pamela pulled back, nodding once.
Then she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Cleo’s head. “You be good for Auntie, alright?”
Cleo let out a quiet mrrp, nuzzling into her touch.
Pamela exhaled softly through her nose.
Then straightened.
She grabbed her coat.
Her keys.
Her bag.
And without another word—
She walked out.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence settled in.
Pearly stood there for a moment, the weight of the gun unfamiliar in her hand.
Her eyes drifted to the door.
Then down at Cleo.
Then back again.
“…somethin’ ain’t right,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head slowly as worry settled deep in her chest.
Pearline’s was alive.
The kind of alive you could feel before you even stepped inside.
Music pulsed through the walls—bass heavy, rhythm thick enough to settle into your bones. Laughter spilled into the night air, mixed with the sharp scent of liquor and smoke. Neon lights flickered against polished surfaces, bodies moving, voices rising, glasses clinking.
Inside—
It was packed.
People crowded the bar, drinks sliding across the surface in quick, practiced motions. Bartenders moved like dancers—pouring, shaking, serving without missing a beat. The stage lights glowed low and seductive, anticipation buzzing through the room.
The club didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow down.
Didn’t care about grief.
The door opened.
And Stack stepped in.
All black.
From head to toe.
His presence cut through the noise without trying.
He didn’t move like the others.
Didn’t relax.
Didn’t blend.
He scanned.
Sharp.
Alert.
Something in him already on edge before he even crossed the threshold.
Then—
He smelled it.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Pamela.
His head turned slightly toward the bar.
Eyes narrowing just a fraction.
He moved through the crowd, shoulders brushing past bodies without apology, gaze flicking from face to face.
Looking.
Searching.
Bartenders lined the counter—but none of them were her.
Not even disguised.
Not even close.
A woman behind the bar caught his attention—a Latina bartender, quick hands, sharp eyes.
She glanced up at him. “What can I get you?”
Stack didn’t answer right away.
His eyes moved once more across the room.
Then back to her.
“I’m lookin’ for Pamela.”
Her expression shifted.
Subtle.
But there.
She didn’t respond immediately.
Instead—
Her gaze slid past him.
Toward the end of the bar.
Stack followed it.
A security guard stood there, already watching.
Waiting.
Stack stepped closer.
They met eye to eye.
“I’m lookin’ for Pamela,” Stack said again, voice steady. “She around?”
The guard looked him up and down slowly.
Measured.
Suspicious.
“Why?” he asked.
Stack didn’t flinch. “Friend.”
A beat.
“I just wanna see if she okay.”
The guard let out a low chuckle.
Shook his head slightly.
“If you was a friend,” he said, voice calm but edged, “you’d know she ain’t here tonight.”
Stack’s jaw tightened just a fraction.
His eyes drifted across the club one more time.
Then back to the guard.
Something clicked.
Quiet.
Certain.
He didn’t say another word.
Just turned—
And walked out.
Because now?
He knew exactly where to go.
Stack slid into the driver’s seat, the door shutting with a heavy thud that muted the outside world.
For a second, he just sat there.
Hands resting on the wheel.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Then—
He turned the key.
The engine roared to life, low and steady beneath him. Familiar. Grounding.
But it didn’t settle him.
Not tonight.
He pulled out of the lot, tires easing onto the street as neon lights from the club faded in his rearview mirror.
And just like that—
His mind went right back.
Across town, Pamela’s engine purred just as smooth.
The black Cadillac DeVille glided down the street like it owned it—long, sleek, untouched by the chaos sitting in her chest.
Her hands rested at ten and two.
Perfect.
Controlled.
But her mind?
Nowhere near the road.
Stack’s jaw tightened as he drove, eyes flicking between the street and nothing at all.
Blood.
The image hit him again.
Quick.
Sharp.
That flash in the sink.
That wasn’t his imagination.
Didn’t feel like it.
His grip on the wheel tightened slightly.
Glass breaking…
His brows pulled together.
“…what the hell was that?”
Pamela’s fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.
Absent.
Unthinking.
Her eyes stayed forward, but her vision blurred with memory.
Leo’s laugh.
The way he used to greet her—
“Pammy, baby!”
Her throat tightened.
Her fingers curled slightly into the wheel.
Stack exhaled through his nose, longer this time.
Trying to reason with himself.
Trying to ground it.
You just tired.
That’s all.
But then—
Her again.
On her back.
Breathing hard.
Looking up—
At something.
Someone.
That stake—
His chest tightened.
A little sharper now.
“…nah…”
Pamela blinked slowly.
Her eyes glistened just slightly under the streetlights as she drove.
Her mind replayed it over and over—
Leo in her arms.
Cold.
Still.
Drained.
Her grip on the wheel tightened.
Her rings pressed into her skin.
“Who did this to you…” she whispered, voice barely there.
Stack’s fingers drummed once against the steering wheel.
Restless.
Uneasy.
That feeling from earlier—
It hadn’t left.
If anything…
It was getting louder.
You think she okay?
That question again.
Persistent.
Heavy.
He swallowed.
What if she ain’t?
Pamela’s lashes lowered for just a second too long.
Her breathing slowed—
But not in a calm way.
In a thinking way.
A dangerous way.
Then—
The smell.
Metallic.
Oakwood.
Her jaw clenched.
Her eyes sharpened.
“…you was in my house.”
Stack leaned forward slightly as he drove, like getting closer to the windshield would somehow make things clearer.
Why I see that?
His mind turned it over again and again.
It didn’t make sense.
None of it did.
But it felt—
Connected.
To her.
Everything felt connected to her.
“…damn it,” he muttered.
Pamela’s fingers brushed the gold cross at her neck again.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
A habit now.
A grounding.
Her lips pressed together as her eyes hardened.
“You took Leo…”
A pause.
Her jaw flexed.
“You almost took my baby…”
Her foot pressed just a little harder on the gas.
The engine responded with a low growl.
Stack’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror for a split second—
Then back to the road.
That last image—
It came again.
Stronger.
Pamela.
On the ground.
That reflection in her eyes—
That stake.
His stomach dropped.
“…nah, nah—”
His hand tightened on the wheel.
That wasn’t just in his head.
It couldn’t be.
Pamela inhaled slowly through her nose.
Her eyes scanned the road ahead—but she wasn’t seeing traffic anymore.
She was seeing patterns.
Thinking.
Tracking.
Her voice came low.
Cold.
“I’m comin’ for you.”
Stack shook his head once, trying to push it out again.
But it wouldn’t go.
Wouldn’t fade.
Wouldn’t leave him alone.
That feeling in his chest—
It wasn’t just worry anymore.
It was urgency.
Raw.
Unshakable.
He pressed his foot down just a little more.
The car picked up speed.
“…hold on,” he murmured under his breath, not even realizing he said it out loud.
Pamela drove on.
Silent.
Focused.
Grief sitting in one hand.
Rage in the other.
Her reflection in the windshield didn’t look soft anymore.
Didn’t look shaken.
It looked—
Ready.
Two cars.
Two roads.
Same night.
Same pull.
And neither of them knew—
They were already heading straight toward it.
The Cadillac rolled smooth into the lot, engine humming low before Pamela cut it off.
Silence followed.
For a moment, she just sat there.
Hands still on the wheel.
Eyes forward.
The glow of the club lights reflected faintly across the windshield, but her mind was somewhere else entirely—somewhere darker, quieter… heavier.
Then she blinked.
Pulled herself back.
Her hand moved, grabbing her coat, sliding it over her shoulders with practiced ease. Keys. Bag. Everything in place.
By the time she opened the door—
She was on.
Heels hit the pavement with a sharp, confident click.
The night air brushed against her skin, cool and alive, but Pamela didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate.
She walked straight for the entrance.
The front guard spotted her immediately, posture straightening just a touch as he gave her a respectful nod.
Pamela returned it, subtle but firm.
No smile.
No extra.
Just acknowledgment.
He opened the door without a word.
Music spilled out to meet her—bass heavy, voices loud, energy thick enough to taste.
Pamela stepped inside like she belonged there.
Because she did.
The bartender from earlier glanced up—and her face lit up instantly. “Hey, Miss Pam—”
Pamela gave her a small smile in return. “Evenin’, baby.”
Smooth.
Effortless.
Like nothing in her world had shattered just hours before.
She moved along the bar, the crowd parting for her without even realizing it.
And then—
The guard.
The same one from before.
He leaned in just slightly as she passed, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Somebody was askin’ for you.”
Pamela’s steps didn’t stop.
But her eyes slid toward him.
Sharp.
Focused.
“…yeah?”
He nodded once. “Tall. Dressed in black. Said he a friend.”
A pause.
A flicker of something crossed her face.
Gone just as fast.
Pamela gave a small nod.
“Mm.”
That was all.
No questions.
No reaction.
Just quiet understanding.
Then she kept walking.
Straight toward the back.
Across town—
The elevator hummed as it climbed.
Stack stood alone inside, hands in his pockets, jaw tight as his eyes flicked up to the numbers lighting one by one.
Each second stretched longer than it should’ve.
His foot tapped once.
Then stopped.
“…you really doin’ this,” he muttered under his breath, more statement than question.
A beat.
He exhaled.
“Just checkin’ on her,” he added quietly, like he needed to hear it out loud to believe it.
The elevator dinged.
Doors slid open.
He stepped out.
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
Stack’s eyes scanned the doors as he walked, counting softly under his breath until—
He stopped.
This was it.
He stared at the door for a second.
Something in his chest tightening again.
That feeling.
That same pull.
He stepped forward.
Raised his hand—
And knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Then harder.
“Pamela?” he called, voice firm but controlled.
No answer.
His jaw set.
He knocked again, louder this time.
And just as he was about to speak—
The door swung open.
And a gun was pointed straight at his chest.
Stack froze instantly, hands going up without hesitation.
“Easy,” he said, calm but alert.
Pearly stood there, eyes sharp, grip steady despite the slight tension in her shoulders.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
Stack didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
His voice came smooth—easy, warm, wrapped in that soft southern charm.
“Name’s Elias Moore,” he said. “Friend of Pamela’s.”
A slight pause.
“I just came by to make sure she alright.”
Pearly didn’t lower the gun.
Didn’t trust him.
Didn’t blink.
“Friend, huh?”
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t be bangin’ on doors like that if it wasn’t important.”
Still calm.
Still steady.
Still watching her just as carefully as she watched him.
The tension sat thick between them—
Until—
A soft thump hit the floor behind Pearly.
Then the light, quick sound of paws.
Both of them glanced down just in time to see Cleo trotting up, tail high, completely unbothered.
She circled Stack’s feet like she’d known him her whole life.
Stack blinked once.
Then a small smile pulled at his lips despite everything.
“Well hey there…” he murmured, lowering one hand slowly. “Hello, princess Cleo.”
Pearly’s brows pulled together slightly as she watched.
Stack crouched just enough, gently scooping Cleo up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Cleo purred instantly, pressing into him.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
Like she belonged there.
Stack scratched behind her ears, shaking his head softly. “Yeah… I remember you.”
Pearly’s grip on the gun loosened.
Just slightly.
Her eyes moved between him and Cleo, watching how easily the cat settled in his arms.
How natural it looked.
How real it felt.
Slowly—
She lowered the gun.
Not completely.
But enough.
Her suspicion didn’t disappear.
But it shifted.
Because Cleo?
Cleo didn’t trust just anybody.
And right now—
She trusted him.
Pearly hesitated for only a second longer.
Then she stepped to the side.
“…a’ight,” she muttered, motioning with the gun. “Come on in—but don’t make me regret it.”
Stack gave a small nod and stepped inside, moving slow, respectful.
The moment his boots crossed the threshold, Cleo slipped out of his arms, landing soft on the floor. But she didn’t go far—just circled his legs again before settling close, tail flicking lightly against his ankle.
Stack glanced down at her, a faint exhale leaving his nose.
“…yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Pearly shut the door behind him, the lock clicking into place.
“So,” she said, folding one arm while the other still loosely held the gun at her side, “how you know Pam?”
Stack turned slightly, taking a few steps further into the room.
“Through Sammie,” he answered. “That’s my cousin.”
Pearly’s expression shifted instantly—softening just a touch. “Oh…”
A beat.
“…I’m sorry,” she said, voice quieter now. “For your loss.”
Stack nodded once. “Appreciate that.”
He moved further in, stopping near the center of the living room.
And then—
He stilled.
Something wasn’t right.
His eyes moved slowly across the space.
The furniture was back in place.
Clean.
Put together.
But—
“…somethin’ off,” he muttered.
Pearly watched him carefully. “…you like her?”
Stack glanced back at her. “Like who?”
“Pamela,” Pearly said plainly. “You a daywalker too?”
Stack shook his head. “Nah. I ain’t like her.”
A beat.
“Just a regular vamp.”
Pearly studied him for a second, then nodded slowly. “Mm.”
Stack’s gaze drifted again, scanning the room.
“I seen the news,” he added. “’Bout Leo.”
Pearly’s shoulders dropped slightly. “…yeah.”
Her voice carried weight now.
“He was… family, in a way,” she said. “Neighborhood. We all grew up around each other. Looked out for each other.”
Stack nodded faintly, listening—
But not fully hearing.
Because it was happening again.
That flicker.
That pull.
His eyes shifted toward the window.
Toward the curtains.
Something about them—
He moved without thinking, stepping closer.
His fingers reached out, brushing the fabric lightly.
His brows pulled together.
“…this ain’t right.”
Pearly frowned. “What you mean?”
Stack rubbed the material between his fingers.
“It’s been replaced,” he said low.
Different texture.
Different weight.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“…why?”
Pearly exhaled, her grip tightening slightly around the gun again—not at him, but at the memory.
“…because somebody tore through ‘em,” she said.
Stack’s hand stilled.
He turned his head slightly. “…what?”
Pearly met his gaze.
“Somebody broke in,” she said. “Trashed the place.”
Silence fell.
And then—
Stack inhaled.
Slow.
Deep.
And that’s when he caught it.
Underneath everything—
Under Pamela.
Under Pearly.
Under the cleaning supplies and fresh fabric—
There was another scent.
Faint.
But there.
His eyes sharpened instantly.
“…nah…”
It hit him again.
Oakwood.
Metallic.
Wrong.
His eyes flickered—
Color shifting just for a split second before settling again.
Pearly noticed.
“…you good?” she asked, cautious now.
But Stack wasn’t listening.
His head tilted slightly.
Tracking.
Feeling.
That same energy from the visions—
It was here.
It had been here.
And now—
It wasn’t.
Which meant—
His head snapped toward the door.
“Damn it.”
He moved fast. Pearly straightened. “Hey—what the hell is goin’ on?” Stack reached for the door, yanking it open. “She ain’t safe,” he said, urgency cutting through his voice now.
Pearly’s heart jumped. “What?”
Stack turned back to her, eyes serious—locked in.
“You stay here,” he said firmly. “Lock this door. Don’t open it for nobody.”
Pearly’s grip tightened around the gun again, confusion and fear creeping in.
“…Elias—”
“I gotta go,” he cut in. “I gotta get to her.”
Pearly’s eyes flicked down to the gun in her hand.
Then back up to him.
Her chest rising just a little faster now.
“…what you mean you gotta get to her?”
The streets had gone quiet by the time Stack pulled up to Pearline’s. The club sat dark against the block, its neon glow dimmed to a low hum, like it was holding its breath. Just hours ago it had been alive—music spilling into the street, laughter, bodies pressed together in heat and motion. Now it looked… abandoned. Hollow. Wrong. Stack cut the engine but didn’t get out right away. His hands rested on the wheel, jaw tight, that same uneasiness crawling under his skin again. The visions. The scent. The feeling that something had already started moving and he was just now catching up to it. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath before pushing the door open and stepping out.
The front door gave under his hand with a low creak, unlocked despite the hour. That alone made his chest tighten. He stepped inside slowly, the door shutting behind him with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have in the empty space. The silence hit him first—not peaceful, not restful, but thick. Heavy. The bar was cleaned, glasses lined neatly, stools pushed in like the night had ended normally. But the air still carried traces of it all—liquor, sweat, smoke—and beneath it… something else. Something unsettled. Stack’s eyes adjusted quickly, scanning, listening, every sense on edge.
Then he felt her.
Before he saw her.
Behind the bar, Pamela stood, treach coat off,with one hand braced against the counter, the other holding a glass she hadn’t touched yet. Her reflection sat faint in the mirror behind the bottles—still, composed—but her eyes gave her away. Sharp. Distant. Like she was somewhere else entirely. The second he stepped fully into the room, her grip tightened just slightly around the glass.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Her voice cut clean through the quiet, calm but edged, and only then did she turn to face him. Stack exhaled, running a hand briefly over his mouth before stepping closer. “I know,” he said, voice low, a little breathless from more than just the walk in. “But I—I just wanted to check on you. I heard what happened.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “I just wanted to make sure you was okay.”
Pamela held his gaze, unblinking. Something unreadable flickered behind her eyes before she lifted the glass and drank it down in one go, her throat working with the swallow. She set it down with a quiet clink, still looking at him. “Is that all?” she asked, her tone flat, almost indifferent.
Stack paused, then nodded. “…yeah.”
“I’m fine,” she said, already turning away from him. “Now you need to leave.”
She didn’t wait for a response, starting to walk off like the conversation was over, like he hadn’t just crossed the city for her. Something in Stack tightened fast, instinct overriding sense. “Pam—” He reached out and caught her arm.
She stilled for half a heartbeat.
Then ripped her arm free, spinning back to face him, eyes flashing white for just a flicker before settling again. “Don’t touch me.”
The air shifted instantly, tension snapping tight between them. Stack lifted his hands slightly, not retreating. “I’m tryna help you.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“I know that,” he shot back, frustration creeping into his voice, “but that don’t mean you don’t need it.”
Her eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “I said I’m fine.”
“You not,” he said firmly. “And you know it.”
Silence fell, thick and unmoving. Neither of them backed down, neither willing to give the other an inch. Stack stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “I seen somethin’,” he admitted. “I don’t know exactly what it was—but it wasn’t right. And it got you in the middle of it.” He searched her face, trying to read something, anything. “I can protect you. Just let me—”
A small, humorless breath left her. “You?” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Protect me?”
There was no real mockery in it—just disbelief. Like the idea didn’t even belong in the same sentence as her.
Stack didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said, steady. “Me.”
The space between them stretched, quiet but charged. Pamela’s gaze dropped for a split second—not to the floor, but to his chest—then back up like she caught herself. Stack noticed, felt something shift in his own chest in response. He stepped closer without meaning to, pulled by something he didn’t understand. Her scent hit him again—warm, familiar now, but layered with something new tonight. Grief. Anger. It settled into him, made it harder to think straight.
Pamela noticed it too—the way his breathing changed, the way his focus slipped just slightly. Her own chest rose and fell slower, controlled, but not untouched. Not unaffected. Her eyes lingered on his mouth for a moment too long before she forced herself to look away.
“Whatever you think you saw,” she said quietly, guarded again, “it ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”
“That’s where you wrong,” he replied immediately.
She looked back at him, irritation flickering now. “Elias—”
“I ain’t leavin’,” he cut in. “Not till I know you safe.”
Another silence settled between them, heavier this time. Closer. The kind that felt like it could break into something else if either of them leaned just a little too far. Pamela’s jaw flexed slightly as she turned her body just enough to create distance, even if it was small.
“…you always this hardheaded?” she muttered.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth despite everything. “Only for people I care about, Pamela.”
Her eyes flickered again, something softer threatening to surface—but she shut it down just as quickly. “…you don’t even know me,” she said.
Stack’s voice dropped, quieter now but steady. “Don’t need to.”
That made her pause.
Just barely.
“I know enough.”
And for a moment—just a moment—she didn’t push him away.
The silence between them didn’t break—it stretched, thick and breathing, like the room itself was waiting. Pamela stood half-turned away, her body still, controlled, but there was tension in every line of her. Stack hadn’t moved either, his eyes fixed on her, holding onto something neither of them wanted to name. The air felt too close, too charged.
Then the door behind him creaked. Slow. Deliberate.
Stack’s body tensed instantly, head turning as the sound settled into the room. Pamela’s eyes snapped past him, something dark flashing across her face before it hardened into something colder. The shift was immediate. Instinctive. A voice followed.
Smooth. Familiar. Cutting. “You just can’t stay away from her, can you?” Stack froze. Not just physically—something deeper locked up inside him. Recognition hit first. Then something colder, heavier. He turned slowly, and there she was.
Mary stood just inside the doorway, untouched by the tension in the room like she had walked into something she already understood. The dim light traced the edges of her figure, her face calm, composed—too composed. Her eyes weren’t searching. They were already settled.
On him. Sharp. Knowing. Then they slid past him. And landed on Pamela. “…so this is who you want to be with, hm,” Mary said softly. Pamela straightened, just enough to meet her fully, chin lifting as her gaze locked onto Mary. There was no fear there—but there was recognition. Not of her face, but of something deeper. A scent. A presence. The same one that had clung to her apartment, that had lingered in the air after everything was torn apart.
“Mary…”, Pamela said, low. Stack’s head turned between them, confusion tightening across his features. “Pam—what—” But it clicked before he could finish. The scent. The visions. The break-in. His eyes snapped back to Mary, something darker settling behind them. “…nah…”
Mary smiled faintly—not warm, not kind. Satisfied. “Took you long enough,” she murmured. Stack’s chest rose slowly, tension pulling tight through him. “Mary… what did you do?” She didn’t answer him. Not yet.
Instead, she stepped forward—one step, then another—her attention fully on Pamela now. She moved like she had all the time in the world, like this moment had already been decided long before either of them got there.
“I've seen you before,” Mary said, voice calm, almost conversational. “I’ve sensed you even before Sammie introduced us.”
Pamela didn’t move, but her eyes followed her every step. “You been followin’ me?”
“Observin’,” Mary corrected softly. “There’s a difference.”
Her gaze dragged over Pamela slowly, deliberately, like she was studying something she had already memorized. “The way people look at you… the way they trust you. The way you smile like the world ain’t got teeth.”
Pamela’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering behind her eyes. Stack looked between them, unease settling deeper into his chest.
Mary’s eyes flicked to him briefly. “You think you found somethin’ more in her?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because something in her tone made his stomach turn. Mary looked back at Pamela. “I led you to her.”
The words landed heavy. Final.
Stack’s breath caught, just enough to betray him. “…what?”
Pamela’s expression hardened, something colder settling into her stance now. “You got a lot to say for somebody standin’ in my space.”
Mary let out a quiet breath, almost amused. “Your space?” she echoed. “That little apartment?” A faint laugh slipped through. “Wasn’t so safe, was it?” Pamela went still.
Completely still.
Stack’s head turned toward her, catching the shift instantly. Mary saw it too—and pressed.
“I wanted you to feel it,” she said quietly. “That moment when your safe place ain’t safe no more. When something that is yours… isn’t anymore.”
Pamela’s eyes flickered white for a split second before settling again. “…you broke into my home.”
“I needed you unsettled,” Mary replied simply.
Stack’s jaw tightened, anger beginning to push through the confusion. “Mary—what the hell are you talkin’ about?”
But she ignored him.
Her focus stayed locked on Pamela. “He begged, you know.” The words cut clean.
Intentional.
Pamela’s breath hitched—just slightly—but her face didn’t break.
Mary stepped closer.
“Kept sayin’ your name,” she added, voice softer now. “Leo, right? Such a sweet ol’ man. And he was truly delicious as well.”
The name hit the room like a gunshot.
Stack’s eyes snapped to Pamela. Pamela didn’t move, but something in her eyes cracked—just enough to be seen.
“…you lyin’,” Stack said low, but there was no weight behind it anymore.
Mary finally looked at him.
And this time, there was nothing soft about her. “He was easy,” she said. “Loud. Loved her too much.”Her gaze returned to Pamela. “People like that?” she continued. “They make you weak.” The room tightened. Pamela’s hands curled at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as her chest rose slow and controlled. “You killed… my friend,” she said. “I used him,” Mary corrected. “Became a bit parched in the process as well.” That landed harder. Stack took a step back, like something inside him shifted out of place. “…Mary…” But she wasn’t done. “You don’t hide,” she said to Pamela, her tone sharpening now. “You don’t obey. You don’t fear anything.” Her head tilted slightly. “Creatures like you don’t survive. Humans and vampires are not meant to reproduce.”
Her eyes darkened. “They get people killed.” Pamela’s lips parted slightly, something dangerous building beneath the surface. Mary stepped closer. Too close. “You get to be soft,” she said, her voice dropping. “And still be powerful.” A faint scoff. “I had to bleed that out of me.” For a flicker of a moment, something real passed through her expression—something old, buried—but it vanished just as quickly. Her eyes flicked back to Stack. “You were always easy to read.”
Stack went still. “Soft heart. Loud soul. Desperate to belong.” Each word landed. “She didn’t even have to try… you walked right into her.” His jaw clenched, something breaking across his face now—confusion, anger, betrayal all twisting together. “…you used me,” he said quietly. Mary didn’t look sorry. “I knew you’d hesitate,” she replied. A pause. “I just didn’t think you’d pick her. My luck gettin’ the vulnerable, dumb twin.” Silence fell again—but this time it wasn’t still. It was alive. Coiled tight, ready to snap. Pamela’s eyes burned now, something raw and furious rising.
Mary’s lips curved faintly. “Look at you,” she said, her gaze dragging over Pamela one more time. “All that power…” Her eyes lifted, locking onto her “…and still so weak. Your mother was meant to die, and your father would be so disappointed.” That was it. Something inside Pamela snapped. And the room—exploded. Something in Pamela snapped. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet—dangerously quiet—the kind of break that came from something buried too deep to hold any longer. Then she moved. Fast.
Her fist collided with Mary’s face with a crack that echoed through the empty club, the force of it sending Mary flying backward. Her body slammed hard into the jukebox against the wall, the glass rattling violently before a record inside skipped—scratched—then caught.
Music burst into the silence. “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” filled the room, slow and heavy, the bassline crawling under the chaos like a pulse. Mary barely had time to lift her head before Pamela was on her. Fangs out. Eyes glowing No hesitation.
Pamela grabbed her by the front of her shirt and dragged her forward, slamming her across the bar top. Bottles shattered instantly, glass bursting beneath them, liquor spilling and dripping down the wood as Pamela struck her—once, twice—each hit harder than the last, driven by something raw and burning.
Grief.
Rage.
Loss.
Mary’s head snapped with each blow, but she didn’t stay down. She never did. Her hand shot up, catching Pamela’s wrist mid-swing, stopping it cold. For a split second, everything stilled between them—locked, breath against breath—before Mary’s lips curled into something sharp. “You done?” she muttered.
She twisted hard. Pamela was thrown off balance, her body slamming sideways into a row of stools that scattered across the floor with a loud crash. The music kept playing, the sound almost mocking against the violence.
Pamela hit the ground—but rolled, fast, pushing herself back up before Mary could close in.
But Mary was already moving. She didn’t rush. Didn’t scramble.
Every step she took was controlled, measured—like she had done this a hundred times before.
She closed the distance and drove her fist into Pamela’s ribs—once, twice—each hit landing with brutal precision before shoving her backward into a table. The wood cracked under the impact, legs snapping as Pamela’s weight broke through it.
Air rushed from Pamela’s lungs, but she didn’t stay down.She couldn’t.
She surged up with a snarl, grabbing the broken edge of the table and swinging it hard. It connected with Mary’s shoulder, splintering on impact and forcing her back a step.
They circled each other now. Breathing heavier. Eyes locked. The tension thickened, sharpened. Pamela lunged again—faster this time, more desperate—driving Mary back into the bar. Glass shattered around them, bottles crashing to the floor as they grappled, hands grabbing, striking, shoving, trying to overpower.
Mary shifted her weight suddenly and flipped Pamela onto her back across the counter. The wood groaned under the force as Mary climbed over her, landing sharp, controlled hits—each one calculated, each one meant to wear her down.
Pamela blocked what she could, twisting under her, but Mary moved like she already knew where she’d strike next.This wasn’t rage. This was discipline. Mary reached blindly for a bottle, smashing it against the counter in one clean motion. The jagged edge caught the low light as she brought it down toward Pamela—
Pamela caught her wrist just in time. Their faces were inches apart. Fangs bared. Breath hot. Eyes blazing. Mary’s voice dropped low. “Everything you love—” Pamela snarled and bucked her off, sending Mary crashing into a column nearby. The impact echoed, cracking wood and shaking the structure around them.
The club was falling apart now. Tables overturned. Chairs splintered. Glass scattered across every inch of the floor. And still—the music played. Steady. Unbothered. Like it had no idea what it was witnessing. And through all of it—
Stack stood there. Still. Watching. Not because he couldn’t move. But because everything inside him was trying to catch up all at once. Mary. Leo. The apartment. The lies. His chest rose slowly, eyes tracking every movement, every strike, every shift between them. He saw it now—clearer than he ever had.
Pamela fought like fire—wild, emotional, burning through everything in her path. Mary fought like steel—cold, precise, unyielding. Two completely different forces colliding in front of him.
And him—
Stuck between them. His hands flexed at his sides, like his body wanted to move before his mind could decide. His jaw tightened, something twisting deep in his chest as realization settled heavier with every passing second. The woman he had laid beside. The one who held him. The one who said she was afraid to lose him.
Was the same one tearing another person apart without hesitation. His breathing slowed. His eyes darkened. But he still didn’t step in. Not yet. Because this wasn’t just a fight. This was truth unraveling right in front of him. And he didn’t know which side of it he belonged to.
Stack didn’t move right away. He just stood there in the wreckage of Pearline’s, surrounded by shattered glass, broken wood, and the fading echo of the jukebox still looping that old Motown track like the world hadn’t registered what was happening inside it. His eyes kept shifting between them—Pamela and Mary—trying to make sense of a fight that felt older than him, heavier than him. Pamela fought like grief had turned into fire in her veins, every strike raw, emotional, unrestrained. Mary fought like she had been built for this exact moment—controlled, precise, merciless. And Stack stood in the middle of it, frozen, because something in him was still catching up to the truth he didn’t want to see. Mary had been there from the beginning. Leo. The apartment. The scent. The visions. All of it folding into one unbearable realization that made his jaw clench and his hands tremble slightly at his sides.
Pamela hit the ground hard during the struggle, her body landing across broken wood near the bar. She didn’t get up immediately this time, her breathing heavier, slower, strength thinning in real time as exhaustion finally started to win. Mary noticed it instantly. She didn’t rush. She didn’t panic. She simply stepped forward, calm and deliberate, and picked up a broken, jagged piece of wood, holding it like she had already accepted what came next. Pamela tried to push herself up, but her body lagged behind her will, and when she looked up at Mary, something shifted in her expression—because this wasn’t just another attack. It was familiar. It was the same angle, the same positioning, the same inevitability from Stack’s vision. Her breath caught as she realized it a second too late.
Mary stood over her, lifting the stake slowly, her voice low and steady as she looked down at Pamela. “This is what you are,” she said softly, almost tired. “A mistake that keeps surviving.” Pamela’s hand twitched, trying to move, but she was too drained, too worn down, her body refusing to respond fast enough. Mary brought the stake down—and everything snapped into stillness—
Then a gunshot cracked through the club.
Mary jerked mid-motion, her body freezing as something slammed into her chest. The stake slipped from her fingers and hit the floor beside Pamela with a hollow clatter. For a moment, she didn’t understand what had happened. She just looked down slowly, like her body was trying to explain it before her mind could accept it. A clean shot. Perfect. Her breathing hitched as she lifted her head, turning slowly toward Stack.
He stood a few feet away, arm extended, holding Pamela’s father’s silver gun. Pamela’s eyes widened the moment she saw it, recognition and horror flickering across her face all at once. “Elias…” she whispered, barely audible. Mary’s voice followed, quieter than before, stripped of everything except disbelief. “…Elias…?” There was no anger in it now. No cruelty. Just confusion—and something deeper. Hurt. Betrayal. Like she couldn’t reconcile what she was seeing with what she thought still existed between them. Stack didn’t answer. He didn’t move. His expression stayed tight, unreadable, as his grip hardened and he fired again. Once. Twice. Three more shots broke through the silence, each one final and decisive. Mary’s body staggered backward with each impact before her strength gave out completely, and she sank to the ground slowly, like the weight of everything she had done was finally pulling her under. Her eyes stayed on him even as she fell, searching for something that never came, until she went still, the room settling into a heavy, trembling silence that swallowed everything whole.
Mary didn’t fall the way things were supposed to fall.
Her body didn’t just collapse into the floor and stay there.
Instead, she trembled—just slightly at first—like something inside her had been unstitched. Stack stood a few feet away, gun still lowered at his side, eyes locked on her as if he was waiting for the world to decide what kind of ending this was. Pamela stayed on the ground behind Mary, breathing hard, slowly coming back to herself, the glow in her eyes fading as her body shifted back into something more human, more fragile, like the rage was finally running out of fuel.
The room stayed silent except for the music still crawling out of the jukebox—soft now, distorted at the edges, like it didn’t belong in the same reality anymore. Mary lifted her head slightly. And then her body began to break apart. Not violently. Not explosively. Quietly. Like ash, remembering it was never meant to be solid.
It started at her shoulders, then her arms, fine particles of light and dust unraveling from her skin. She looked down at herself, confusion flickering across her face one last time, like even she couldn’t understand what ending she had been given. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. The air around her shimmered, thinning her, dissolving her, pulling her upward piece by piece until there was nothing left to hold onto.
And then— She was gone. No sound. No body. Just empty space where she had been standing. Stack didn’t move for a moment. His eyes stayed fixed on that spot, like he expected something to come back from it. Like he needed to be sure it was real. His grip on the gun loosened slowly, the weight of it settling into his hand in a way that suddenly felt too heavy to carry.
Pamela shifted behind him, pushing herself up on shaking arms, still regaining her balance, still coming back from the edge of everything she had just been pulled through. The anger in her had burned down to something quieter now—exhaustion, shock, something almost human again. Stack finally exhaled, slow and controlled, and turned toward her. Without a word, he stepped forward and offered his hand.
She hesitated just a second before taking it. When he pulled her up, it wasn’t gentle, but it was steady—like he was the only thing in the room still anchored to reality. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Pamela looked up at his face, searching for something she didn’t know how to name, while he lifted his gaze toward the clock above the bar.
The hands had shifted farther than either of them had noticed.
“Sun’ll be out soon,” he said quietly. That was all.
He set the silver gun down on the bar without ceremony, like it didn’t belong to him in the first place, like nothing in this room did anymore. Then he turned, and without another word, he walked out.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt too normal for what had just happened.
Pamela stayed standing there for a moment, still breathing hard, still trying to understand why her body felt so empty and so alive at the same time. Her eyes drifted to where Mary had been, then to the door Stack had just walked through, like both exits were pulling at her in different ways. An inner silence pressed in on her, louder than anything that had just happened. She should’ve thanked him. That thought came first, sharp and simple. He saved her. He didn’t have to, but he did. But why?
Was it because she was his friend? Because she was something more dangerous than that? Because he couldn’t stand to watch her die? Was it because… he loved her?
Her chest tightened slightly as she leaned against the bar, fingers curling around the edge for balance.
And then the question she didn’t want to ask came anyway, quiet and unavoidable.
Was she in love with him?
And worse—
Was he already gone before she even had the chance to answer it?
Elias “Stack” Moore thought eternity was unshakable—until Pamela Williams arrived. In the 1990s, while Sammie grows old, Stack and Mary remain timeless, bound by blood and passion. But Pamela is no ordinary woman; a daywalker, radiant and dangerous, she awakens in Stack a hunger beyond blood—one that could unravel love, loyalty, and eternity itself.
POV: Elias “Stack” Moore thought eternity was unshakable—until Pamela Williams arrived. In the 1990s, while Sammie grows old, Stack and Mary remain timeless, bound by blood and passion. But Pamela is no ordinary woman; a daywalker, radiant and dangerous, she awakens in Stack a hunger beyond blood—one that could unravel love, loyalty, and eternity itself.
A/N: Haiiii, sweet babies. It has been a while but due to not working anymore and trying to get my business up and running, I have been going through alot. Here is a short chapter with Sammie & Stack in Sammie's final moments.
Warning: Heartbreak, jealousy, harm to animals and death.
Song Recommendation:
Word Count: 858
The door swung shut behind her, the bell chiming once before the noise of the club swallowed it whole again.
Smoke drifted lazily through the room. Glass clinked. Laughter rose and fell like a tide. But Stack stayed frozen at the bar, eyes locked on the door long after Pamela Williams was gone.
Sammie noticed.
Of course he did.
He leaned one elbow on the bar, lifted his glass, and took a slow pull of his whiskey. “Boy,” he said casually, eyes never leaving Stack’s profile, “you look like somebody just stole somethin’ from you.”
Stack scoffed, finally tearing his gaze away. “You always talk too damn much.”
Sammie chuckled low. “And you always lie bad when you’re bothered.”
Stack reached for his drink, jaw tight. “I ain’t bothered.”
“Mm,” Sammie hummed, unconvinced. “That’s funny. ‘Cause your eyes followed her like she owed you money.”
Stack shot him a look. “Watch it.”
Sammie only smiled wider. “You been starin’ since she popped up. Since before she even opened her mouth. Don’t insult me by pretendin’ otherwise.”
Stack exhaled through his nose, irritation mixing with something deeper—something he didn’t want named. “She’s nothin’,” he muttered. “Just another pretty face and nice body.”
Sammie laughed outright at that. “Elias Moore, you might fool a room full of sinners, but you ain’t never fooled me.”
Stack said nothing.
Across the room, Mary had slipped outside, cigarette already lit, her back turned to the club. The glow from the neon sign washed over her as she exhaled smoke into the night, unaware—or pretending to be.
Sammie waited until she was gone before speaking again, voice lowering.
“You know how I know you lyin’?” he asked.
Stack finally looked at him. “How?”
“‘Cause that woman?” Sammie said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “She ain’t just some woman.”
Stack’s brow furrowed slightly. “The hell you talkin’ about, Sammie?”
Sammie’s expression shifted—less teasing now. More thoughtful. Older.
“Pammie,” he said quietly. “She special. I owe her my entire life”
Stack leaned back against the bar, interest sharpening. “What you mean?”
Sammie took another drink, slower this time. “From before Pearline ever opened her doors. Before this place had a name. Before I had money to throw around and fools to impress.”
Stack stayed silent, sensing the weight in his cousin’s voice.
“She saved my life,” Sammie continued. “And this club.”
Stack blinked. “What?”
“Years ago,” Sammie said, eyes distant now, fixed on something long buried. “Alley off South Wabash. I was young. Dumb. Thought I could handle my own problems.”
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Almost got robbed of supply and life.”
Stack straightened slightly.
“They cornered me,” Sammie said, his fingers tightened around the glass. “Then she showed up.”
Stack could picture it without trying—Pamela stepping out of the dark like she owned it.
“She didn’t ask questions,” Sammie said. “Didn’t hesitate. Just moved. Fast. Precise. Mean when she had to be. Took all four of ‘em down like they were nothin’ but a bad habit.”
Stack swallowed.
“She made sure I was aight,” Sammie went on. “Helped me bring my supply in the bar. Told me I had somethin’ worth protectin’, even if I ain’t believe it yet.”
He glanced around the club—the lights, the people, the life humming in every corner. “This place? Wouldn’t exist without her.”
Stack stared into his drink. “Sounds like a good woman.”
Sammie smiled softly. “She even more than that cousin. Way more.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with things unsaid.
Then Sammie spoke again—quieter now. Rougher.
“I’m dyin’, Stack.”
The words landed hard.
Stack’s head snapped up. “Don’t—”
“I know,” Sammie cut in gently. “I know you don’t wanna hear it. But I ain’t got much time left. And I don’t waste breath on lies.”
Stack’s jaw clenched. “You’ll be fine.”
Sammie shook his head slowly. “I won’t. And that’s alright. I made my peace.”
He leaned closer, forearms braced on the bar. “But before I go, I need to know somethin’.”
Stack met his eyes. “What.”
“That you’ll keep her safe. Get to know her. Be friends with her and all that.”
Stack frowned. “Woman like that don’t need anyone, little cousin.”
“She does,” Sammie said firmly. “Whether she admits it or not.”
Stack opened his mouth to argue, but Sammie raised a hand. “Listen to me.”
His voice softened. “You and her… y’all cut from the same cloth. Loss. Loyalty. Blood you can’t get back. Choices that haunt you.”
Stack felt something twist in his chest.
“You just don’t know it yet,” Sammie said. “But you will.”
He reached out, gripping Stack’s forearm tightly. Cousin to cousin. Blood to blood.
“Promise me,” Sammie said. “Keep her close. Watch her back. Don’t let this world take what it already tried to once.”
Stack hesitated.
Then nodded. “I promise.”
Sammie smiled then—small, tired, but genuine. “Good.”
The door creaked as Mary stepped back inside, shaking rain from her coat.
The moment broke.
But the promise didn’t.
And somewhere deep in Stack’s chest, something had already begun to shift—long before he understood what it would cost him.
