Safe With You

The Wrong House

~ Mark ~

The street is quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that hums in your ears and makes your skin crawl.

The same street I used to park on when I’d pick her up from her brother’s place.

Same driveway. Same porch light.

She’s here — I can feel it.

Alyssa always ran back to Triston when things got hard.

Pathetic, really.

But tonight, she’ll remember where she belongs.

With me.

The anger burns under my skin, a slow simmer that’s been building since she left.

Since she took my money, my name, my life and made me the villain.

She was always good at pretending to be the victim.

Always so damn good at making everyone believe she was innocent.

I move through the shadows toward the back door.

It’s locked.

That’s fine.

It takes me less than a minute to force it.

The sound of the latch snapping is louder than I expect, echoing in the quiet house.

I freeze.

Nothing.

Good.

I step inside.

The smell hits me first — smoke, whiskey, something sharp like aftershave and oil.

Not Alyssa’s scent.

Still, I move forward, quiet, careful.

“Ali?” I whisper.

The word sounds foreign now.

I take another step into the hallway.

A flicker of movement catches my eye — the reflection of cards spread across a table, glasses half-empty, chips scattered.

Voices. Laughter.

Then — the sound of a chair scraping.

Footsteps.

Before I can turn, the light snaps on.

And the laughter stops.

Triston stands in the doorway, broad-shouldered and calm in a way that sets my teeth on edge.

Behind him — four men. Greyson Riley, Winston, and two others I don’t recognise, but I know the type. Built like soldiers.

Poker night.

“You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me,” Triston mutters.

My stomach drops.

Greyson’s voice is low. “You picked the wrong house, Mark.”

My name in his mouth sounds like a curse.

I lift my hands, trying to sound casual. “Relax. I just came to talk to Alyssa.”

Triston’s face hardens. “You think she’s here?”

“I know she’s here.” I smile, slow and cold. “You’ve always hidden her. She can’t hide forever.”

The silence after that is a living thing.

And then — movement.

Greyson lunges first.

I don’t even see the punch coming.

His fist connects with my jaw — sharp, fast, devastating.

I stumble back, taste blood, and swing wildly in return, catching him across the cheek.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Triston’s on me next — a blur of fury, grabbing my shirt and slamming me against the wall so hard the plaster cracks.

His face is inches from mine, voice shaking with restrained violence.

“You came to kidnap my sister, you sick bastard?”

I spit blood in his face. “She was mine.”

Wrong answer.

He drives his fist into my stomach, hard enough to make me drop.

I hit the ground gasping for air.

The others are moving now.

Winston grabs me by the collar and drags me up. “You really don’t get it, do you? You laid a hand on her. You think any of us are letting that slide?”

I twist, catch him off guard with a punch to the ribs — a solid hit — but he doesn’t back off.

He grins. “That all you’ve got?”

Then he hits me back.

Once. Twice.

A right hook that sends me sprawling into the poker table, cards flying like confetti.

Triston’s friend — the one with tattoos creeping up his arms — picks me up by the throat and pins me against the wall.

“Do you remember her voice?” he growls. “Crying? Begging? Because I do. I was there when she showed up on Tristons door step!.”

I claw at his arm, choking. “You don’t know what happened—”

He squeezes harder. “We saw what you did to her.”

Greyson steps forward, breathing hard, blood running from a split lip.

He’s shaking, but not from pain. From the effort of holding himself back.

“Let him go,” he says quietly. “He’s not worth dying over.”

The tattooed man drops me. I collapse to my knees, coughing, gasping.

Greyson crouches in front of me, grabs my chin, forcing me to look up.

His voice is cold steel.

“You ever come near her again — Quinn, Poppy, anyone — and I won’t stop next time. You’ll disappear. Understand?”

I meet his eyes, and for the first time, I believe him.

He’d do it without hesitation.

But I can’t stop myself. The words slip out, poisonous and stupid. “You think she loves you? You’re just a replacement. You’ll never—”

Greyson punches me again.

The sound echoes off the walls.

Blood splatters the floor.

My nose explodes with pain.

Triston’s back on me before I can fall — one hand gripping my collar, the other c****d for another swing.

It takes Winston and one of the others to pull him off.

“Tris, stop!” Winston shouts. “You’ll kill him.”

“Good!” Triston snarls, struggling against their hold. “He deserves worse.”

Greyson’s voice cuts through the chaos, calm but sharp. “He’s done. Get him out.”

Two of Triston’s friends grab me, half-drag, half-carrying me toward the door.

I’m bleeding, bruised, half-conscious — and I can still hear Triston shouting behind me.

“You ever breathe her name again, I swear to God—”

The front door slams open. They throw me out onto the cold concrete.

I land hard. The world spins.

Greyson steps into the doorway, silhouette framed in light. His shirt’s torn, knuckles bloodied, but his voice is level.

Deadly calm.

“She’s mine now,” he says quietly. “And we protect what’s ours.”

The door closes.

The night swallows the sound.

I lie there for a long moment, tasting iron and humiliation, before crawling back to my car.

Every part of me shakes — not from fear, but rage.

This isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

~ Greyson ~

The second he’s gone, I sink against the wall, knuckles still throbbing.

Winston exhales slowly, wiping blood from his temple. “That was messy.”

Triston’s pacing, chest heaving, eyes still wild. “He wanted to take her. He was planning to—”

“I know.” My voice is rough. “I know, mate.”

Triston slams his fist into the wall again, leaving a dent. “He’s lucky you were here.”

“No,” I say quietly. “We were lucky.”

Because if Alyssa had been here…

I can’t even finish the thought.

Winston whistles softly. “I’m calling this the most productive poker night we’ve ever had.”

Triston huffs a dark laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Next week, we stick to cards.”

Greyson doesn’t answer. He just pulls out his phone, staring at the screen for a long moment.

Then he texts her.

G: You safe?

A: Always. Just finishing up at AQ. You okay?

G: Yeah. Just… handled something.

A: What kind of something?

G: The past.

A: Then let it stay there.

He exhales, thumb hovering over the screen.

Then —

G: I love you.

A: I know.

He smiles faintly, blood drying on his knuckles.

“Let’s clean up,” he says finally, voice steady again. “If the police come by, we were playing cards all night.”

Winston grins. “Always a pleasure committing plausible deniability with you.”

Triston laughs hoarsely, shaking his head. “You Rileys are insane.”

Greyson smirks. “You love us.”

And for the first time in hours, Triston cracks a real smile.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”