Chapter Text

The underground fighting den stinks of sweat and blood beneath the Quarter, packed with bodies that gave up on humanity hours ago. Some shit jazz club sits on top of it, the kind of place tourists avoid unless they're looking to get robbed. Down here, violence is the only music anyone cares about.

Delilah Boudreaux knows how to disappear in plain sight. Years of hunting taught her that sometimes the best camouflage is looking like you don't matter. Tonight she's playing the lost girl who wandered into the wrong place, clutching a bourbon she won't drink, shoulders hunched under a jacket that hides enough weapons to start a small war.

The man she's been tracking across three states holds court near the fighting pit. He's exactly what the survivors described: tall, built like someone who knows how to hurt people, with the kind of face that makes women stupid. Classic good looks that hide something rotten underneath, something that makes your instincts scream even while your eyes appreciate the view.

She's memorized every detail from the case files, but seeing him in person makes her understand why his victims fell for it. He wears charm like a mask, just thick enough to make you doubt your gut feeling until it's too late. The kind of bastard who leaves women with scars they can't explain and memories that doctors write off as hysteria.

The cruelty of it makes her sick. Not just the attacks, but the way he makes sure they survive. Broken enough to remember, crazy enough that nobody believes them. Each woman is trapped in her own nightmare while he walks free, probably laughing at their pain.

The crowd goes wild as the fighters below drop their human faces completely. Fur and fangs and scales come out to play, the audience howling for blood like it's Christmas morning. Lila keeps her eyes moving without focusing, using her peripheral vision to track threats while avoiding the kind of direct stare that might trigger what she is in their minds.

She risks another look at her target. He's already watching her, and the weight of his attention makes her skin crawl. His gaze slides from her face to the red necklace at her throat. The same necklace all his victims wore. Something hungry flickers across his face.

She forces herself to smile, nervous and grateful, the way a lost woman might look at a handsome stranger who seems safe. Inside, her heart pounds with that familiar mix of fear and excitement that means the hunt is working.

The fight below turns vicious, blood spraying the barriers while the crowd loses its collective mind. Some huge Wesen barrels past her, all teeth and attitude. He pauses, nostrils flaring like he smells something off, but the violence in the ring pulls him back before his brain catches up.

Every nerve in her body screams danger now. This place isn't just about fighting. It's about territory and power and the kind of politics that get outsiders killed. She needs to leave. Now.

One last glance shows he's still tracking her, that calculated interest sharper now. At least he hasn't shifted, keeping his human face even while lesser Wesen show their true colors all around him. That kind of control takes practice. Years of it.

She's done what she came to do. Time to go.

The New Orleans night hits her with wet heat and jazz bleeding through the fog. She doesn't relax, not even close. Empty alleys just mean the hunt has moved outside.

She knows what it feels like to be stalked. That itch between your shoulders, that sense of something following just far enough back to deny but close enough to strike. He's out there, waiting for her to make a mistake, to turn down the wrong street or trust the wrong shadow.

Her boots keep steady time on wet pavement while her hands find the knife in her pocket. She's studied his patterns, knows how he thinks. The trick is looking weak without being weak. Playing scared while staying ready to fight.

The late night party crowd offers cover. She mingles with drunk tourists, using their noise to mask her movement. But she can still feel him back there, locked onto her like a guided missile.

The bump comes right on schedule. Soft, deliberate, his hand grazing her arm with practiced accidents. She stumbles, eyes going wide with surprise she doesn't feel.

"Sorry, darlin'," he says, and fuck, his voice is exactly what she expected. Smooth enough to make you listen, rough enough to make you interested. "Didn't see you there."

She forces a nervous laugh, biting her lip like she's embarrassed. "It's alright. I'm not from around here. Got a little turned around trying to find my car."

He looks her over like he's memorizing a menu, taking in everything from her shaking hands to the way she keeps touching that red necklace. His mouth curves in what might be amusement if you didn't know better. "The Quarter's a hell of a place to lose yourself."

She shifts her weight, nervous on the surface while her mind catalogs exits and weapons and all the ways this could go wrong. "Maybe I'm just drawn to trouble."

He leans closer, voice dropping to something that would be sexy if she didn't know what those hands had done. "Well, you found it."

Her heart hammers but she keeps her voice light, flirty. "Guess I should be more careful, huh?"

"Oh, you definitely should." The warmth in his tone doesn't match the cold in his eyes. "Not everyone out here's so friendly."

She tilts her head, smile lingering with calculated innocence. "Lucky me, then."

He falls into step beside her, moving with the fluid grace of someone who's comfortable being the apex predator in any room. His presence is weird mix of protective and threatening, probably keeps his victims confused right up until the claws come out.

"So," he says, accent thick as molasses, "what'd you think of the fights back there? Not exactly a tourist show."

She glances sideways, choosing each word carefully. "I've seen worse. Lots of wild energy, though. Kind of exciting if you know how to keep out of the way."

His laugh comes from deep in his chest. "You didn't look scared. Most folks wouldn't even peek at a place like that, much less walk in alone."

"Maybe I'm braver than I look," she offers, dropping her gaze with practiced shyness. "Or dumber."

His fingers brush a curl from her shoulder, the touch lasting too long to be casual. "You don't strike me as dumb, Red. More like... reckless."

The nickname makes her stomach turn. He's already filing her away with his other victims. "Is that so? And what does that make you?"

His grin shows too many teeth. "Dangerous."

She shivers, just enough for him to notice. "Well, maybe that's what I'm looking for in New Orleans. A little danger."

They keep walking through the wet streets, him playing a charming local, her playing stupid tourist, both of them lying through their teeth. But she needs to give him something to track, and needs to plant the hook.

"So, Red," he says, already possessive with that nickname, "you got a name to go with all that curiosity?"

She hesitates like she's thinking about it, then smiles sweet and shy and completely fake. "Lila. Lila Boudreaux."

Everything changes instantly. His smile flickers, something dark sliding behind his eyes. Recognition maybe. Or calculation.

"Boudreaux?" He rolls the name around like he's tasting it. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time. You any relation to...?"

She shrugs, keeping her face innocent even as her muscles get ready for violence. "Just local family. You know how it is down here, everyone's got a cousin or ten."

The pretense dies fast. His hand shoots out, slamming her into the mouth of an alley. Her back hits wet brick hard enough to knock the wind out of her, his grip on her arm tight enough to bruise.

"You're a Grimm, aren't you?" The words are soft but full of threat, no more charm, no more games.

The fight explodes instantly. She drives her knee toward his balls while reaching for her knife. He twists away, fast as hell, keeping his grip while avoiding her strike.

"You really picked the wrong fucking night, Grimm," he snarls, and then his body starts to change.

Bones crack and shift, skin ripples like water. His face stretches into something out of a nightmare, jaw extending, eyes burning gold, fur sprouting along his arms. Under the shitty alley light, he's not a handsome stranger anymore. He's something feline, jaguar-like, all teeth and claws and murder.

Her knife appears in her hand while she goes for her gun with the other. He lunges, scary fast. She barely dodges, the blade catching his forearm and drawing blood. He hisses, then grins ugly through his transformed face.

"You're not killing any more women, you piece of shit," she growls, breathing hard.

His laugh echoes off the alley walls, dark and mocking. "I've never killed anyone... until tonight."

The words hit like cold water but there's no time to think. He attacks again, claws slashing where her throat used to be. She fires once, bullet catching his shoulder and spinning him back. He howls, more pissed than hurt, and his next swipe connects. Claws tear through her thigh, pain exploding through her leg.

They circle each other in the narrow space, both predators, both bleeding, both desperate. It's an ugly dance: dodge, slash, pivot, strike. Her knife finds his ribs, his claws catch her wrist. She kicks him in the gut, buying space.

He leaps again. She fires: once, twice, three times. The bullets find their marks and he crashes against the wall, sliding down in a spreading pool of blood. His golden eyes fade, confusion and rage fighting for dominance until there's nothing left.

Lila stands alone in the alley, gasping for breath, the reality of what just happened settling over her like a weight. Somewhere in the distance, New Orleans keeps partying, completely unaware that she just killed another monster.

Chapter Text

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The motel room reeks of bleach and mildew, with bourbon fumes still hanging in the air from whoever stayed here last. Lila sits on the mattress edge, bare legs covered in blood and bruises, her ruined jeans thrown by the bathroom door. Her fingers shake as she threads the needle, but she refuses to let the pain win. Her first aid kit looks pathetic spread out beside her: some gauze, bandages, rubbing alcohol that's almost gone, and painkillers that expired two months ago.

The gash across her thigh is ugly. Deep and jagged where that jaguar bastard's claws ripped through muscle. She shoves a towel between her teeth, bites down hard, and pushes the needle through her skin. The pain is sharp, clean, real. Good. Pain means she's still breathing.

Some shitty sitcom plays on the TV, canned laughter filling the silence while she works. In, out, pull tight, tie it off, cut the thread. She's sewn herself up so many times she could do it drunk. Hell, she has done it drunk. Just another scar to add to her collection of bad decisions and close calls.

Blood runs down her calf when she finishes. She wipes it with her already bloody towel, then pours alcohol over the whole mess. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she hisses through clenched teeth, the burn worse than the stitching.

Done. She collapses back against the headboard, sweat making her curls stick to her face. She stares at the water stains on the ceiling, breathing through the pain, letting it ground her. She made it out. That's what matters.

The TV keeps laughing at jokes that aren't funny while she replays the fight. Every punch, every slash, every word. I've never killed anyone... until tonight.

Bullshit. Has to be bullshit.

She saw the footage. Read the survivor statements. Those women described him perfectly: the golden eyes, the claws, the way he played with them before attacking. The red necklace every victim wore. All of it pointed straight to him.

But that doubt sits in her gut like spoiled food. What if she got it wrong? What if she just murdered some random Wesen who was in the wrong place? That's the bitch about this job. Sometimes you're working with shadows and best guesses, and sometimes those guesses get people killed.

No. She forces the thought away. The evidence was solid. The survivors ID'd him. He attacked her first. She did what she had to do.

Her eyes burn with exhaustion. The city outside is still going strong, music and shouting and engines, but her body is done. She closes her eyes and lets the darkness take her.

The nightmare hits hard. She jolts awake gasping, tasting blood that isn't there, feeling phantom claws at her throat. For a second she doesn't know where she is. The motel room feels too small, the air too thick, like being buried alive.

She swallows bile and forces herself to breathe. Her thigh throbs, hot and swollen despite the stitches. The dream clings to her, making her hands shake, making her check the shadows for golden eyes that aren't there.

But she gets up anyway. No choice. She grits her teeth against the pain and limps to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to look out.

"Shit."

Cop cars everywhere. Red and blue lights painting the motel sign, yellow tape across the alley where she left the body. The whole damn cavalry showed up for one dead Wesen.

Adrenaline kicks the exhaustion right out of her system. She throws on clean clothes, grabs her gear, and starts wiping down every surface she touched. Doorknobs, faucets, the TV remote. Can't be too careful when you've got a body count.

She checks herself in the mirror. Pale, bruised to hell, looking like she went ten rounds with a freight train. But her eyes are clear and focused. The city might be hunting for her, but she's been hunted before. She knows how to disappear.

Her go-bag gets loaded with the essentials: water, pills, her beat-up camera, extra ammo. Document everything, Marie taught her. Evidence is power, even if nobody wants to see it. Especially when the monsters look just like everyone else.

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The walk to the crime scene is torture. Every step pulls at her stitches, sending fire up her leg. Her shoulder screams under the bag's weight. But she keeps moving, head down, just another hungover tourist stumbling through the morning. One foot in front of the other, counting breaths to stay focused.

The cop crowd at the alley is thick. She finds a spot behind a mailbox and starts shooting photos. Badge numbers, faces, license plates. Who showed up, who's in charge, who looks nervous. If this case disappears into the system, at least she'll have proof it existed.

Through her viewfinder, she watches them work. This is the part nobody talks about. The aftermath. The cleanup. The paperwork that turns violence into statistics. This is what winning looks like when you're the last one standing.

Then her whole world tilts sideways.

He's there. The man she killed. Standing at the police tape, chatting with a cop like it's Sunday brunch. No wounds. No blood. Not even a fucking bruise.

Her hands go numb. The camera almost slips from her grip. She saw him die. Watched the light leave his eyes. Felt his blood on her hands. But there he is, breathing and smiling and very much not dead.

"What the fuck?" she breathes.

She starts shooting photos on autopilot, zooming in on his face, needing proof she's not losing her mind. Click, click, click. Each shot feels unreal, like photographing a ghost.

"I killed that fucker," she mutters, then checks to make sure nobody heard. But everyone's focused on the scene, not the woman having a breakdown behind a mailbox.

Then they wheel out the body bag.

She watches through her lens as they unzip it to check the ID. The dead man's face is visible for just a second, but it's enough. Same face. Same jaw, same scar above the eyebrow, same everything.

The truth hits. Twins. Fucking identical twins.

"Motherfucker," she whispers. "Son of a bitch. Goddamn it."

She nearly drops the camera. How was she supposed to know? Nothing in the files mentioned a brother, let alone an identical twin. She just made this job ten times harder and probably started a blood feud in the process.

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Back in her motel room an hour later, door locked and blinds shut tight, Lila lets herself feel the full weight of how fucked she is. She paid for another week at the front desk because running now would look suspicious. Besides, she needs answers. Who was the dead twin? Was he guilty too? And what about the living one?

She strips and gets in the shower, water hot enough to hurt. She scrubs blood and dirt from her skin, trying not to scream when soap hits her wounds. She sees both faces when she closes her eyes. The dead one, the living one, both of them snarling at her in that alley.

She slams her fist against the tile. Pissed at them, at herself, at this whole fucked up city that keeps its secrets buried under jazz and gumbo and tourist smiles. This was supposed to be simple. Track the killer, put him down, move on. Now she's got a surviving twin who probably wants her dead and no idea if she even killed the right one.

The water runs cold before she gets out. She wraps herself in a scratchy towel and goes straight for her laptop. Still dripping, still half-naked, she downloads the crime scene photos and starts cataloging everything. Every cop, every witness, every detail she can squeeze from the pixels.

Her notebook fills with observations. Times, badge numbers, who talked to who. She studies the surviving twin's body language, the way he kept his hands visible, how he worked the cops with just the right mix of grief and cooperation. The guy's either innocent or a damn good actor.

Hours pass. Her eyes burn from staring at the screen. When she finally looks up, it's dark outside. The French Quarter is waking up for another night of debauchery, jazz and laughter filtering through her thin walls.

She's running on three hours of sleep in two days, but fuck it. The city doesn't sleep and neither can she. She gets dressed carefully: tight dress, fresh makeup, hair done up nice. Just another party girl out for a good time. Nobody needs to know she's hunting.

She checks her reflection one last time. The exhaustion is still there, hidden under concealer and lipstick. But her eyes are sharp, focused. Ready.

Time to find out what this city is really hiding.

Chapter Text

Lila slides into the bar like she owns the place, even though she feels like shit warmed over. The floor's sticky with spilled beer, ceiling fans pushing around smoke and the smell of cheap whiskey. Neon signs buzz over the bar while some blues song nobody's listening to plays from a busted jukebox in the corner.

This is where the motel owner said cops drink after their shifts. The kind of place where they can bitch about the job without civilians listening in. She spots her mark in a back booth, still wearing his uniform pants and undershirt, badge clipped to his belt, face slack from too much bourbon.

She posts up at the bar, close enough to eavesdrop but not obvious about it. Orders whiskey neat, gives the bartender a tired smile that says she's approachable but not desperate. Then she pretends to get lost in her phone while she waits.

She doesn't have to wait long.

"Looks like you got an admirer, Tommy!" one of his buddies says, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. "Go on, she's outta your league, man."

She takes a slow sip of whiskey, still not looking their way. Let him come to her. That's how this game works. Make them think it's their idea.

Tommy slides out of the booth after some more ribbing from his friends. He smooths down his hair, straightens his badge like it matters, and walks over with the confidence of a drunk man who thinks he's smoother than he is.

"Hey there," he says, voice warm with that Southern drawl that probably works on tourists. "You look like you could use some company."

The guy's trying so hard it's almost sad. Drunk enough to approach her, not drunk enough to realize he should've stayed in his booth. Tommy's got that cop look: blonde hair cut short, soft brown eyes that might be kind when they're not swimming in bourbon, lean build that says he works out but likes beer more.

She lets her smile spread slow, the kind that makes drunk men think they've got a shot. "Why yes, I could use some gentleman company such as yourself," she says, slurring just enough to sound like she's matching his level.

"Name's Ashley," she lies, reaching out to shake his hand.

He takes it, grinning like an idiot. "Tommy. Tommy Dale. Good to meet you, Ashley. You from around here?"

The small talk is painful. She makes up some bullshit about visiting a cousin while he rambles about the heat and how many hours he's been working. He tells her he's a cop like it's supposed to impress her. She laughs at his terrible jokes and trails her finger around her glass rim, and he eats it up like candy.

"I heard about that poor guy they found," she says, dropping her voice like she's sharing a secret. "Must've been so hard for his brother to have to identify him. Can't imagine seeing someone you love like that." She makes her eyes go wide and sad. "Do you guys have any suspects yet? Or is it just another one of those New Orleans mysteries?"

Tommy looks around like he's about to share state secrets, then leans in close. His breath reeks of whiskey. "Supposed to keep quiet about it, but truth is, we got nothing. Nobody saw shit." He shakes his head. "And it wasn't just his brother doing the ID."

She forces herself to laugh at his weak attempt at cop humor while her brain processes this new information. Triplets. Not twins. Fucking triplets.

Her stomach drops. If there were three of them, she might have killed an innocent man. Maybe the other two were the killers, and she got the wrong one. Or maybe they were all guilty. Either way, two of them are still out there, and if they know she's the one who killed their brother...

"Those poor brothers," she murmurs, laying the sympathy on thick. "Losing family like that in a city like this? I can't even imagine."

Tommy just shrugs and signals for another round, completely missing the storm brewing behind her fake concerned expression.

"Are they from around here?" she asks, pushing her luck. "Or just passing through like me?"

He nods, rolling his glass between his hands. "Locals. Born and raised. Everyone knows the Lejeune boys. Cal, Ray, and Beau. Whole family's got a reputation for trouble, even before all this." He grins, his eyes doing that obvious up and down thing drunk men do.

"Anyway," he says, trying to sound smooth, "what about you, Ashley? You here alone, or should I worry about some jealous boyfriend showing up?"

She's gotten what she came for. Time to make an exit before he gets grabby or she asks one too many questions.

"Just me tonight," she teases, swirling her drink. "Maybe you can show me a little of that famous Southern hospitality?"

He grins like he just won the lottery, leaning in close enough that she can count his pores. An hour of flirting and three more drinks later, she's got him convinced he's God's gift to women.

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Lila presses herself against the wall of Tommy’s apartment, her lips locked with his in a desperate, searching kiss. Their hands roam with urgency, grasping and pulling, craving the heat of contact. The city’s late-night warmth fades against the fire sparking between them. She tastes whiskey and salt on his skin, her fingers weaving through his dark hair as his hands slide along her hips, slipping beneath the hem of her dress to trace the curve of her back.

Recklessness doesn’t matter tonight. She needs this, needs the rush to quiet the storm of questions and memories—of blood, of violence, of everything she’s running from. For now, she lets herself sink into the moment, into the raw, unfiltered want that drowns out the world.

Her stitches tug with a sharp sting, and she hisses softly, the pain cutting through the haze. Tommy pulls back, his bourbon-brown eyes softening with concern. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low and genuine.

She flashes a quick, breathless smile, brushing off the moment. “Work at the zoo. Got into a scrape with a sloth, of all things. Just go easy on my legs, alright?”

He laughs, the sound warm and unsuspecting, then scoops her up in his arms with an easy strength, carrying her to his bed.

Tommy lowers her gently onto the mattress, his hands already tugging at her dress. Lila melts into the soft sheets, her laughter fading as his lips find hers again, the kiss deeper now, hungrier. His fingers glide up her thigh, mindful of her warning but bold, teasing the sensitive skin. She pulls his shirt over his head, her nails grazing his skin, craving the friction, the connection, anything to anchor her in this moment and keep the outside world at bay.

His groan vibrates against her neck as she tugs him closer, her hands fumbling with his belt. Clothes fall away in a hurried tangle—a heel kicked off, her dress slipping from her shoulders, his pants discarded with a shared laugh and a muttered curse. His body is warm and lean above her, his breath hot with whiskey as he kisses her neck. She bites his shoulder, a gentle nip, urging him closer with her legs, careful not to aggravate her stitches.

She craves this, the ache and stretch of being wanted, if only for tonight. She moves with him, matching his rhythm, gasping when the pain flares but refusing to stop, not when it feels this good, this necessary.

But Lila doesn’t stay beneath him long. With a fluid twist, she flips him onto his back, straddling his hips with a playful grin, her curls spilling wildly around her face. Her eyes glint with a mix of hunger and mischief as she pins his wrists above his head for a moment, balancing on the edge of sweet and fierce. She moves her hips slowly, teasingly, drawing a low groan from him as he strains to touch her, his eyes pleading.

She rides him with purpose, every movement fueled by the need to burn away the fear and frustration of the past days. Her hands release his wrists, letting him grip her hips as she moves faster, harder, each thrust chasing the release she’s desperate for. He groans her name—her false name, Ashley—but she doesn’t care. Tonight, she’s in control, and nothing matters but the heat of their bodies, the pulse of sweat and skin.

For Lila, intimacy with humans is rare. Usually, it’s Wesen, their primal energy shifting beneath her when they woge at the peak of pleasure, that animalistic edge making her own release explosive. But tonight, Tommy’s human eagerness is enough. He’s breathless, gasping her false name, and she moves with fierce determination, her body chasing the knot of pleasure building in her core. When it hits, she digs her nails into his chest, her head thrown back, a raw cry escaping her lips. He follows, helpless beneath her, his body shuddering as they ride the wave together, tangled in the sheets.

For a few perfect moments, Lila feels nothing but the glow of pleasure and control. The world outside—the scars, the monsters, the threats—fades into the sweat-soaked darkness.

Tommy sleeps soundly, his limbs sprawled across the sheets, leaving Lila free to move. She slips from the bed, her bare feet silent on the floor as she pulls on his shirt, the fabric brushing the tops of her thighs. With the grace of a hunter, she prowls through the darkened apartment, her senses sharp, her mind already shifting back to the dangers waiting beyond this fleeting escape.

His duty bag is right by the door, practically begging to be searched.

The case notes on the Lejeune homicide are standard, but two other files catch her eye. Both women, both attacked, both describing something that sounds exactly like her original target. Claw marks, bite wounds, survivors talking about glowing eyes and impossible strength.

She photographs everything with her phone, hands steady despite the adrenaline spike. The Lejeune names keep popping up in witness statements. Cal and Ray seen at bars where victims were last spotted. Beau near a trailhead days before a woman vanished.

Then she finds the missing persons report. Another woman, gone two weeks ago, last seen near the same woods. The pattern is clear as day.

She checks the bedroom. Tommy's still dead to the world. Her hands shake as she takes the last photos, already planning her next move. Whatever's happening in New Orleans, it's not over. And the monsters she's hunting might not be the only ones with blood on their hands.

Chapter Text

The motel room is cool and silent when Lila finally slips inside, exhaustion pulling at every muscle, her skin still humming with the aftershocks of the night. She drops her bag on the floor and leans against the door for a long moment, letting her body settle, letting the city’s noise fade to a distant hush outside the window.

She barely undresses before crawling beneath the thin sheets, burying her face in the pillow that still smells faintly of bleach and cheap detergent. The mattress sags under her weight and for the first time in days, she lets herself relax, lets her thoughts drift somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

Her body is sore, stitched and bruised, but her mind is finally heavy with true exhaustion. As soon as her head hits the pillow, sleep swallows her whole. No dreams, no monsters, just the thick, welcome dark of real, restful sleep.

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Lila wakes the next morning feeling clear-headed, rested in a way she barely remembers. The city’s sunlight slips through the cracked blinds, warming the motel sheets as she stretches, every ache in her body dull but manageable. For the first time in days, she doesn’t feel hunted.

Her phone buzzes against the nightstand, rattling a water glass. She blinks at the unfamiliar number, then answers, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah?”

A familiar voice—one of her old contacts from Baton Rouge—greets her, straight to business. “Got your message, Boudreaux. Just need to know where you want the package sent.”

Lila glances at the notepad beside the bed, rattles off the address for the New Orleans motel, careful to say the room number twice. “Overnight it. Don’t cut corners, and don’t put my name anywhere visible.”

There’s a short pause, then a gruff, “You got it. Should hit your doorstep by noon tomorrow.”

She hangs up, rolls onto her back, and grins at the ceiling

She gets up, takes a quick shower—hissing as water runs over her stitched thigh, the sting a sharp reminder of last night’s close call. She spends a moment cleaning the wound properly, hands steady even as the skin pulls and burns. Bruises bloom dark along her hips and ribs, and she pauses to examine them in the mirror, making a mental note to pick up more bandages and painkillers later.

She dresses carefully in clean jeans, a faded tee that clings to her curves, and a dark jacket to hide the worst of the bruises. She knots her hair up, scrubs her face clean, and checks her gear—phone, wallet, a folding knife slipped into her jacket pocket. Her stomach rumbles, sharp and demanding, as she grabs her bag and slips out of the room, making sure the door is double-locked behind her.

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The diner next door is a tiny, time-worn slice of old New Orleans: a hand-painted wooden sign hanging above the window, its edges faded by rain and sun, the smell of frying bacon and burnt coffee thick in the air. The counter is lined with chipped stools, the floor scuffed from decades of heavy boots and tired feet. Booths crowd the walls, their vinyl seats patched with duct tape, and the walls are plastered with fading photos of long-gone Mardi Gras parades. The regulars eye her as she walks in—a quick glance, a nod—and then return to their own breakfasts, used to strangers but always wary.

Lila claims a window seat, the sun warming her shoulders as she settles in. She orders black coffee—strong, no sugar—and a plate of eggs and grits, the kind of food that will stick to her bones. She lets herself relax for a moment, taking in the quiet clatter of silverware and the low murmur of conversation, watching the city outside start to wake. For a little while, she can just be another tired soul at breakfast, hidden in plain sight.

She pulls out her phone, thumbing through the dozens of photos she snapped the night before at Tommy’s apartment. Crime scene notes, photos of battered folders, blurry images of suspect names and police scribbles. She leans in, eyes sharp and hungry for detail, reading what she can of the women’s statements—words like claws , animal , and missing jump out at her from the grainy snapshots.

She squints, scrolling slowly, trying to piece together the timeline from whatever she managed to photograph. The two women assaulted in the woods, the third woman still missing, the Lejeune brothers’ names surfacing again and again. Every new bit of evidence is another thread, another reason not to let her guard down.

She reads, half-distracted, letting the diner’s chatter fade into background noise as she pieces together what she can before her coffee even arrives.

She’s so focused she nearly misses the sound of someone calling, “Ashley?”

Her head snaps up. Standing just a few feet away, framed by sunlight at the diner door, is Tommy—last night’s cop, his uniform traded for jeans and a Saints t-shirt, a crooked grin on his face. He raises a hand in greeting, already making his way over.

She looks up, instantly sliding into her easy smile as Tommy walks over, looking more like a hungover college kid than a cop in his jeans and Saints tee. She plays it cool, not missing a beat.

“This must be a small town after all,” she teases, flashing him that same flirtatious grin from last night.

Without waiting for an invitation, Tommy slides right into the booth across from her, stretching his arms along the cracked vinyl. “Guess I just got lucky,” he says, smirking, eyes still glued to her. “Didn’t peg you for an early riser.”

She gives him a slow once-over, letting her smile tilt into something teasing. “Didn’t peg you for the breakfast type either, Tommy. I thought you’d be sleeping off all that bourbon.”

He chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can’t waste a good morning. Besides, I had a hunch I’d see you around.” His gaze lingers on her lips, on her collarbone peeking from the collar of her tee. “Hope you’re not stalking me, Ashley.”

She lets out a soft, mock-offended laugh, stirring her coffee with one finger. “Me? You’re the one following me, remember? Maybe you’re the one who’s smitten.”

He grins, unashamed. “Guilty. Not every day I run into a beautiful stranger twice in twenty-four hours. You always make a habit of lighting up a room?”

She tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. “Only when the company’s good.” Their coffees arrive, and she wraps her hands around the mug, taking a sip and watching him over the rim. “So, Officer Dale—off duty today?”

“Just Tommy, and yeah.” He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’ve got a few hours to kill. Thought I’d spend ‘em with a pretty girl and a greasy breakfast.”

“Careful,” she teases, “you’ll make me think you’re trying to butter me up.”

He leans back, stretching, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I am. Any big plans for today?”

She shrugs, playing mysterious. “Just seeing where the city takes me. New Orleans is full of surprises.”

Their knees bump under the table, not by accident. Tommy smiles, reaching for the sugar, letting his fingers brush hers. “Maybe I can show you a few more before your trip’s over.”

She smiles, letting him have his little victory. “Maybe you can.”

They flirt back and forth, the conversation light, easy—until Tommy’s tone shifts. He leans forward, voice just above a whisper, his eyes suddenly sharper.

“You know, I keep security cameras in my apartment.” He lets that hang in the air, watching her reaction. “Caught some interesting footage last night—looked like somebody was going through my classified files while I was passed out. Wanna tell me what that was about, Ashley?”

The blood drains from Lila’s face. Oh, shit.

She forces a nervous laugh, feigning embarrassment, but her mind spins at a mile a minute. He’s got me. He knows. She looks down at her coffee, twisting the mug between her hands, then sighs—letting her mask slip just enough.

“Alright, you caught me,” she admits, dropping her voice to match his. “I wasn’t totally honest with you last night. I’m a confidential informant for a private investigator up north. Got hired to help with a cold case—the P.I. thinks the Lejeune brothers are tied to something ugly in Illinois. I came down to get eyes on the case files, see if there was anything new. I wasn’t trying to screw you over, Tommy—I just needed information. Fast.”

She holds his gaze, letting just enough nerves show to sell the story. “That’s why I was in your files. I was desperate. I needed to know if we had the right men.”

It’s not a total lie. She really does have a P.I. contact—someone she trusts to bail her out if things get legal or ugly. She’s helped crack more than a few cases, mostly for a cut of the payout and the kind of street-level protection she can’t get from the cops.

For the first time, she sees real hurt flicker in Tommy’s eyes. It knocks the wind out of her a little—he might be a cop and a flirt, but she still used him, and now she can’t quite swallow the taste of it.

She draws a shaky breath, suddenly feeling the weight of everything she’s been hiding. “Look, I get it if you don’t want to see me again,” she says quietly, sincerity leaking through her walls, “but I do owe you some honesty.”

She glances around, then leans in. “My real name’s Delilah. Most people just call me Lila.”

Tommy’s eyebrows rise, confusion mingling with wounded pride. She gives him a rueful smile. “If you want, let’s do this right. Come out with me tonight—no more games. I’ll tell you what I know about the other cases. All of it. You deserve that much.”

She sits back, waiting, hoping he’ll take the offer—for his sake, and maybe for hers, too.

Even as she gives him that olive branch, her mind races with a hunter’s pragmatism. She needs Tommy. His local knowledge, especially about the Lejeune brothers, could crack this case wide open. But she can’t force him into it. She needs him to want in—to feel part of something bigger, to chase the thrill with her. If he trusts her, he’ll be more useful, and maybe more loyal when things get ugly.

She watches his face, searching for any sign of anger or betrayal. For a moment, Tommy just stares at her, hurt flickering in his eyes. Then he lets out a breath, leans back in the booth, and nods. Slow, cautious, but accepting.

“Alright, Lila,” he says finally, his voice softer than she expected. “Let’s do it your way. But you owe me that drink. And the whole truth, whenever you’re ready.”

A spark of relief flashes through her. She gives him a grateful, crooked smile. “Deal. And thank you, Tommy. You won’t regret it.”

For now, her investigation has a new partner, and a new edge.

Chapter Text

Lila and Tommy agree to meet again the next day at the same diner—dinner this time, with promises of no more lies and real answers. But for now, she’s got other leads to chase and too many questions that can’t wait.

After a few hours spent scouring city records and checking in with a couple of low-level informants, she circles back to the block where the wesen fighting ring is hidden. The street looks harmless in daylight—an old jazz club with flaking paint and battered windows, a corner market across the way, and a steady trickle of locals going about their business.

But Lila keeps her distance. She doesn’t go inside, not this time. Instead, she blends into the slow shuffle of pedestrians, drifting from bus stop to bench, always watching. She maps the exits, counts the security cameras, notes who comes and goes. She watches for familiar faces, checks the windows for movement, and keeps an eye out for the bouncers and lookouts who run security for the ring.

Every so often, she pretends to tie her shoe, snaps a few quick photos with her phone, or lingers with a cigarette she doesn’t even light. She knows patience is everything—the trick is to look bored, invisible, just another woman passing through. But underneath her calm, the tension never leaves her bones. The memory of last time—of blood, violence, and her monster’s golden eyes—haunts every step she takes.

She spends an hour casing the block, gathering names and faces, reading the street like a chessboard. If the fighting ring is the Lejeune brothers’ territory, she’ll need every angle and shadow before she tries to move again. There’s no margin for mistakes—not anymore.

She keeps a wide berth around the alley where the last crime scene went down, avoiding it entirely. The last thing she needs is to risk her scent lingering if it wasn’t already. In her world, scent is as damning as fingerprints—especially to Wesen with a nose for prey.

When she showered that morning, she made sure to use the old tricks Marie taught her: layered soaps, astringents, and subtle spices to break up any trace of her unique scent. It’s a habit she’s kept since childhood—never leave a trail, never smell the same way twice. Today, she wears something with citrus and cedar, nothing like the vanilla and mint she used before the fight. To a human, she smells like a fresh shower. To anything else, she’s a blank slate, a new ghost passing through the city’s shadows.

As she lingers on the block, she’s surprised by how easy it is to slip questions about the Lejeune brothers into casual conversation. Their name is everywhere—in shop talk, on porch stoops, over cups of strong coffee at corner diners. Since the murder of one brother, the whole neighborhood is buzzing with gossip, no detail too small or brutal to share.

Nobody seems to care who’s asking. In fact, most people lean in, eager to spill what they’ve heard. She learns the dead brother was the mean one, trouble since he was a kid, and more than a few locals say out loud that the city’s better off without him. "About time someone did something," an old man grumbles to her at the bus stop, shaking his head. "Ain’t nobody gonna miss that bastard."

Lila nods along, never showing how closely she’s listening. It’s almost too easy to build a picture of the brothers’ history, their enemies, and who might be next. All she has to do is listen—and keep her real interest hidden beneath a mask of curiosity and small-town concern.

But the easy chatter dries up fast when the Lejeune brothers themselves appear. One by one, their presence ripples down the block—a subtle shift in the air, shoulders tensing, conversations trailing off mid-sentence. Even the boldest gossips fall silent, eyes dropping, lips clamping shut. The neighborhood’s comfort vanishes, replaced by wariness and the instinct to disappear.

Lila feels it too—the way the brothers draw attention, their confidence bordering on threat. She glances up from her phone just in time to catch one of them watching her, eyes sharp and appraising, a faint smirk on his lips. For a heartbeat, it’s as if the whole block holds its breath, waiting to see what happens next. She tucks her hands into her jacket pockets, shrinking into the crowd, all too aware she’s gained their attention.

Lila feels their gaze, sharp and lingering, and knows she’s been marked. She melts into the crowd, shoulders hunched, blending with a pack of tourists snapping pictures and locals hustling for cover as thunder rolls overhead. She makes her way to a crowded bus stop, heart pounding in her chest. When she’s sure she’s lost them, she ducks away and starts walking, cutting down a side street just as the sky opens up.

Fat, hot raindrops drum against the sidewalk, slicking her hair to her scalp and soaking her jacket in seconds. She’s halfway to the next block, cursing under her breath, when suddenly there’s someone beside her—silent, sudden, close enough that she smells the faint burn of cologne beneath the rain.

An umbrella snaps open above her head, sheltering her from the worst of the downpour. She glances sideways and nearly stops walking: it’s one of the Lejeune twins, the same predatory smirk curling his lips as he holds the umbrella steady between them.

She forces her body to stay calm, lets her mouth curve into a grateful, easy smile. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” she says, steady as ever. “Thank you.”

She keeps her smile, eyes curious but calm as they start down the sidewalk together, his stride unhurried to match hers. The umbrella is wide enough to keep them both dry, rain drumming softly overhead as the city blurs behind the downpour.

“Not every day a lady gets rescued from the rain,” Lila says, tucking a curl behind her ear. “You always this chivalrous, or just when there’s an audience?”

He laughs, a low, easy sound that somehow cuts through the noise of the street. “Guess you caught me on a good day, ma’am. My mama would haunt me if I left a pretty woman out here to drown.” He offers her his arm in a mock-formal gesture, still careful not to crowd her space. “Name’s Beau, by the way. Beau Lejeune. And you are?”

She hesitates, then gives him her practiced smile and a false name. “Ashley.”

Beau’s eyes crinkle at the corners, accepting the lie without flinching. “Well, Ashley, hope you don’t mind a little company. Neighborhood’s not what it used to be. Some folks say there’s trouble about.”

“Seems like trouble finds me, no matter where I go.” She glances up, letting herself sound a little playful, a little vulnerable. “Lucky for me, I found the right umbrella.”

He laughs again, genuinely charmed. “New Orleans’ll do that. You from around here?”

She shakes her head, hugging her jacket close. “Just passing through. Visiting friends, getting the lay of the land.”

“Well, you picked a hell of a week for it.” His voice is casual, but Lila hears the weight behind it—the whole block still buzzing with talk of his dead brother. He glances sideways, searching her face. “Folks can get a little jumpy these days. Lot of rumors, lot of old grudges coming out.”

She shrugs, feigning ignorance. “People always talk. Half of it’s just to pass the time, isn’t it?”

“Maybe so,” Beau says, his tone lightening. “Still, a smart girl keeps her head down when the city’s restless.”

He holds the umbrella steady as a car splashes past, shielding her from the spray. “What brings you out here on a day like this, anyway? Can’t be the weather.”

She laughs softly. “Guess I’m curious about everything. The music, the food… the people. New Orleans always has a story or two worth hearing, doesn’t it?”

He grins, that Lejeune confidence shining through. “It does at that. Just make sure you’re listening to the right people.”

There’s an undercurrent to the words—almost a warning, almost a dare—but his manner stays warm and polite. He walks her to the next corner, keeping her under the umbrella the whole way.

“You sure you’re alright out here?” he asks as they pause at the crosswalk, his eyes searching hers. “Rain’s only going to get worse. I can walk you wherever you’re headed.”

She glances up at him, letting a hint of nervousness slip into her smile. “Actually, I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend at a diner nearby, but I think I took a wrong turn. Would you mind walking me there?” Her tone is light and grateful, just a girl asking for a favor.

Beau’s smile widens, his Southern manners doubling down. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you wander off alone in this weather. Lead the way, darlin’.”

They walk together under the umbrella, boots splashing through puddles. As soon as his attention is on the street ahead, Lila slides her phone from her pocket, typing fast with shaking fingers:

Meet me at the diner. Now. Pretend to be my boyfriend. It’s important.

She tucks her phone away, matches Beau’s pace, and starts planning her next move—every line, every smile, every detail she’ll need to sell the story once Tommy arrives.

The rain eases a little, making everything smell sharper—wet earth, magnolia, the faint hint of spice from a gumbo shack venting steam into the street. Beau keeps the umbrella angled high above them, easily able to shield both himself and Lila with his long arm. At 6’2”, he’s nearly a foot taller than she is; she has to tilt her head up just to meet his eyes when he glances down at her, a teasing smile playing at his lips. The difference in height makes her feel small under his protection, but she never lets herself shrink—she matches his stride, chin up, unbothered by the way he towers over her.

“So, Ashley,” he drawls, “you let the city pick your spots, or do you have a plan?”
She laughs, letting her accent slip a little more Southern. “Mostly just wandering and hoping I stumble into something good. Today, that seems to be the rain—and a little company I wasn’t expecting.”

Beau grins, not missing a beat. “Well, I can show you a few places off the beaten path. A real New Orleans experience—if you’re brave enough.”
“Oh, I’m plenty brave,” she teases, her gaze meeting his. “You don’t scare me, Beau.”

“Didn’t say I should.” He nudges her gently, the touch light but charged. “But this neighborhood has a way of bringing out the best—or the worst—in people. Especially outsiders.”

She lifts her chin, her tone flirtatious but curious. “That sounds like a challenge. You ever show a tourist around and have them surprise you?”

He considers, his smirk softening for just a second. “Maybe once or twice. But it takes someone special to keep up with me.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” she says, giving him a sidelong look. “But maybe you should be the one keeping up with me.”

They laugh together as they near the glow of the diner’s windows, the umbrella closing in over their heads as the rain slows to a patter. Beau pauses just outside, holding the door for her. “After you, darlin’. Wouldn’t want your boyfriend getting jealous.”

She slips inside, her heart pounding as she scans the booths—already searching for Tommy, already preparing for the next lie.

She slips inside, but Beau lingers in the doorway, filling the frame with his tall, broad-shouldered presence. For a moment, neither of them moves—rain patters against the sidewalk, and the warm diner light casts his features in sharp relief.

He leans down, bringing his face close to hers—close enough for her to see a raindrop tracing his jaw, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. “If your boyfriend ever loses his way,” Beau murmurs, his voice deep and low, “you know where to find me.”

Their eyes lock, tension buzzing between them. Lila almost forgets her cover story, almost lets herself slip into something reckless. She feels the weight of his gaze—appreciative, hungry in a way that leaves her breathless.

She leans in, matching his energy, her own voice just above a whisper. “Careful, Beau. This city’s dangerous for a girl with too many choices.”

He grins, slow and knowing, then steps back, collapsing the umbrella at his side. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost, darlin’. But if you do—I’ll be around.”

Only when he’s disappeared back into the storm does she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her heart is racing as she moves deeper into the diner, already searching for Tommy.

 Lila turns back to the diner, pulse still racing. She barely has time to scan the booths before Tommy appears at her side, eyes sharp and just a little stormy.

“Didn’t look like you needed any help,” Tommy says under his breath, trying—and failing—to sound casual. He glances out the window after Beau. “The only reason he left is because he must’ve seen me walking up.”

She lets a small, sly smile slip out and gestures toward an empty booth in the back. “Sit down, Tommy. You did good—just in time.”

They slide into the booth together, the tension from outside still clinging to her skin. Tommy leans across the table, his voice low and direct. “Alright, Lila. What was that all about? And don’t tell me it’s nothing—I saw the way he was looking at you.”

Tommy slides into the booth across from her, eyes still dark from what he saw outside. She greets him with a sly, knowing smile. “Are you jealous?” she teases, letting the question hang in the space between them.

He just glares at her for a long moment, jaw clenched, before dropping his voice. “What were you doing with Beau Lejeune? If he’s a suspect for your P.I., why are you letting him walk you through the rain and play hero?”

She keeps her smile but lets it soften, leaning in across the table. “Wouldn’t you rather I keep my enemies close?” she says, voice low and even. “I needed to see if he’d slip, if he’d give anything away. I’m just trying to do the job I came here to do. You showing up when you did was perfect.”

She watches him, waiting to see if he buys it—or if she’ll have to spin another story before dinner’s done.
Tommy snorts, still not convinced, and Lila lets her expression turn mock-serious. “Aw, c’mon. Do you need some I’m sorry sex?”

Tommy just rolls his eyes, but an hour later they’re back in her motel room next door. Clothes fall off in frantic pieces, kisses go from hungry to downright feral, and she drags him to her bed with her fingers hooked in his belt loops.

He pins her wrists above her head, growling her name against her neck as he kisses, bites, licks, leaving bruises in a map down her throat. She arches under him, teasing and taunting, their bodies rolling together in a push-pull of lust and apology. Her nails rake down his back, tugging him closer until their laughter gives way to gasps and low, desperate moans.

She flips him over, straddling his hips, riding him hard enough to make the headboard knock against the wall. Tommy grabs her by the thighs, pushing up into her, matching her rhythm with a cocky, wicked grin. Sweat beads on her brow, her hair wild around her face as she rocks her hips faster, chasing her own pleasure as much as his.

When they both shatter, it’s with her mouth on his and his hands fisted in her hair, raw and unfiltered. After, they collapse in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, bruises blooming in all the places that matter. Neither of them mentions Beau—or the case—again until well after the sun’s gone down.

Chapter Text

Lila wakes to the thin gray light of morning filtering through the cheap motel curtains. The bed beside her is empty, still warm, the sheets tangled from the night before. On the pillow, a scrap of paper catches her eye—a note written in a quick, stubborn hand:

I’m not jealous. See ya at dinner.

She snorts, shaking her head, and laughs out loud, the sound echoing off the faded wallpaper. Typical Tommy—couldn’t say it, but had to get the last word anyway.

She stretches, feeling the delicious ache in her muscles, then forces herself up. In the bathroom, she strips off her clothes, examines the wound on her thigh in the mirror, and nods at what she sees. The stitches are holding and the skin looks less angry, just a bruised reminder of how close things got. She cleans it carefully, applying fresh antiseptic and a new bandage, before stepping into the shower and letting the hot water wash away the rest of the night.

Once she’s clean, she dresses for the day: dark jeans, a tank top, her old leather jacket. Her hair goes up in a messy knot, eyes sharp and clear in the mirror. She’s still here. Still hunting.

Lila sits cross-legged on the bed, her battered notebook spread open in her lap. She reviews every detail: names, sightings, patterns, and the notes she scribbled from Tommy’s files. Everything points to tonight. This is it, she thinks. One way or another, I end this before another girl gets hurt.

She closes her eyes, running over her plan, committing every street and escape route to memory. She’ll go alone—she has to. No one else can move the way she does, and she can’t risk Tommy, not when the Lejeune brothers have every cop in their pocket or too scared to act.

So she waits. For hours, she paces the cramped room, tension coiling in her gut. Her phone buzzes with a few idle texts, but she ignores them. Her attention is locked on the street outside, half expecting trouble, half daring it to come.

Finally, just past noon, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Lila tenses, reaching for her knife before she remembers—the package. She opens the door a crack and peers out.

A delivery man stands there, clipboard in hand. “Miss Boudreaux? Got a package, need a signature.”

She scrawls her name, muscles straining as she drags the trunk over the threshold, barely managing to close the door behind her. The thing is heavy, built to last—and packed with everything she’ll need for the night ahead.

Lila bolts the door, leans against the trunk, and lets herself breathe for a moment. Her hand rests on the battered lid, heart pounding with anticipation. Tonight is the night—one way or another, it all ends here.

She kneels beside the trunk, unlocking the battered padlock with a small iron key she keeps on a chain around her neck. The lid creaks open, and the scent of old leather and herbs fills the room. Nestled on top of the gear inside is a massive, ancient book—the Grimm book, the kind every hunter dreams of finding and dreads having to use.

She hefts it onto the bed and flips through the thick, yellowed pages, eyes scanning the inked illustrations and hand-scrawled warnings. Lila searches for anything about the creature she’ll be facing tonight—its strengths, its weaknesses, the old folk remedies and weapons that work where bullets fail. Her breath catches when she finds it: a two-page spread titled, Balam.

The sketches show monstrous, jaguar-like faces—eyes dark and intelligent, fangs bared, claws poised mid-leap. She traces a fingertip over the details: “Balam gain sharp, jaguar-like fangs and claws capable of lethal damage in close combat. Notoriously fast and agile, they fight with a wild, unpredictable ferocity.”

Notes in the margins add even more: “Obsessive when family is threatened. Known to stalk and hunt their enemies for days, never backing down. Daring—nearly fearless, and will escalate rather than flee. Silver and standard ammunition have little effect unless delivered to the heart or brain. Some traditional toxins (curare, nightshade oil) may slow them, but only briefly. Only a wound that disables both heart and spine is truly fatal.”

Lila reads each word twice, committing the warnings and sketches to memory. The book is full of old hunters’ margins—advice on traps, drawings of wounds that failed to kill, a final scrawl: “If you fight two Balam together, strike first, strike fast, and do not hesitate. If one falls, the other will fly into a rage.”

She knows she could probably handle one brother in a fair fight—she’s done it before, barely—but two at once is another matter. The thought sends a chill down her spine. She flips back and forth through the book, searching for any mention of how to take down more than one of these creatures at the same time. She needs more than courage tonight. She needs every edge, every trick, every secret the old Grimms left scrawled in the margins. Because if it comes down to both brothers together, it might be her last hunt.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

Hours slip away while Lila gathers herself and pours over her research, the room growing dim around her. By the time she checks the clock, it’s already after one. She has a promised dinner with Tommy at the diner next door at five, and too much to do before then.

She starts gathering up the mountain of case files she’s collected—notes on victims, old police reports, and everything she’s pieced together to trace her hunt to this city, all of it circling back to the Lejeune brothers. She lingers over each file, reading names and ages: a college student who never made it home from a music festival, a bartender left for dead in the cypress swamp, a mother of two whose body was never found, only torn clothing and blood in the bayou. Each woman’s story gnaws at her—fear, pain, disbelief etched into their statements, families left with no answers, survivors dismissed as hysterical or delusional.

It’s more than a hunt. It’s a promise she made to herself long ago, the night she realized monsters can look like anyone. Tonight isn’t just for her own survival—it’s for every woman whose case was filed and forgotten, for every girl who never made it out alive. She tucks the files into a battered messenger bag, making sure nothing gets left behind. Tonight, she’s going to need every scrap of evidence, every hard-won fact, to survive what’s coming.

She takes her time getting ready, trading the battered jeans for a dress that hugs her hips and stops just above the knee—cute enough to pass for a woman heading to dinner, but not so tight she can’t move if she needs to run or fight. Underneath, she straps on her holster: one compact pistol at her ribs, the other low on her thigh, meticulously positioned so the leather and steel won’t rub against her healing stitches. The last thing she needs is a wound reopening at the worst possible moment.

She tucks a pair of slim, double-edged knives into a hidden pocket at her waist, another in each boot—her boots, sturdy but stylish, adding a precious inch to her height and making her stride that much more confident.

In the battered trunk, she finds the small vial of pale green poison called Curare extract—just enough to coat a blade or two, but too volatile to prep in advance; it would dry or turn useless if exposed to air for more than a few minutes. She slips it into her jacket, wrapped tight in a handkerchief, her thumb brushing the cool glass. Just in case.

Her hair goes up into a high knot—out of the way and practical, but leaving her neck bare, vulnerable in all the right ways. She studies herself in the mirror, making sure nothing is obvious: the guns, the blades, the old scar under her jaw. Just a woman heading out for dinner, if you don’t know what to look for. Ready for war.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

The afternoon creeps by in a haze of nerves and preparation. By the time five rolls around, Lila is freshly showered, dressed up enough to pass for casual dinner but still practical—boots, jacket, knives and guns hidden where they won’t be noticed. She slips out of her motel room with her messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a fresh stack of copied case files tucked under her arm, the paper still warm from the motel copier, leaving faint smudges of ink on her fingertips.

She pauses in the doorway of the diner, letting the sound and light wash over her: the soft hum of conversation, the sizzle of a fryer, the air thick with the scent of coffee and something sweet baking in the kitchen. She stands for a moment, collecting herself—then Tommy’s wave catches her eye from a booth in the far corner.

He’s already got two mugs of coffee on the table, looking restless and maybe a little too eager. She squares her shoulders and heads his way, the stack of papers hugged tight against her chest, every step rehearsed and steady. Tommy grins at her, his smile softening as she slides into the booth across from him.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, teasing, but there’s an edge to it—a hint of concern, maybe even admiration, in the way he looks her over. “You look like you’ve been working all day.”

She just shrugs, setting the files between them. “You could say that. Got everything I need for tonight, I hope.”

He eyes the papers, then her, trying to read what she’s not saying. She meets his gaze, steady and calm, even as her heart hammers in her chest. Whatever happens after dinner, she knows the clock is ticking down

He gives her a once-over, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “You got somewhere to be after this?”

She doesn’t waste time with lies. “Yeah. There’s an underground fighting ring I need to get into tonight—see if the Lejeune brothers turn up, maybe shake a few locals for information. They’re not exactly gonna come find me on their own.”

Tommy sighs, tapping a spoon restlessly against the tabletop. “Where is it? You want backup?”

She can’t help the little smile that breaks through. “I can take care of myself, Tommy. I’ve done this before.” She shrugs off his concern, but her voice is warm with something that sounds almost grateful. “It’s not your world. Trust me, you don’t want it to be.”

He leans back, studying her for a moment, then nods—accepting, for now, that she’s walking into the lion’s den alone.

“These,” she says, her voice steady, “are the first reports I ever got my hands on.” She thumbs through the files, finding the one that started it all—a girl found outside a bar six states away, claw marks on her arms, the terror in her statement nearly bleeding through the page. “Every attack looks different, but the pattern’s the same—late night, isolated, brutal.”

Tommy leans in, brow furrowed, as she pieces the story together: the trail of assaults and disappearances, the gaps in police work, the handful of witness statements dismissed as hysteria. She flips to a page with a single grainy tape—one of the brothers caught on camera outside a victim’s apartment, the footage dark and damning.

“They always show up just before the worst happens,” Lila says, voice low. “No one ever connects them, not until it’s too late. And now it’s landed here.”

She meets Tommy’s eyes, letting him see the weight of it. “I’m not leaving until this ends.”

Tommy takes it all in, lips pressed tight. Then he glances up. “Do you know anything about the murdered brother? Cal.”

Lila doesn’t hesitate, her mask is airtight. “No,” she says, shaking her head and her voice perfectly even. “I didn’t know him. Only what’s in the files, and what the locals are saying around town.” She looks down at her coffee, careful to keep her hands steady. “I never got close. Never even saw him up close.”

Inside, her pulse hammers, but she’s had plenty of practice lying to cops and to herself. The truth is a secret she’ll carry alone: she’s the reason Cal won’t hurt anyone else. But that’s not a story she’s willing to tell, not now, maybe not ever.

She looks up, meets Tommy’s gaze without blinking. “Everything I know is right here. That’s all I’ve got.”
Dinner with Tommy is quiet at first, both of them watching the steam curl from their coffee as dusk settles outside the diner window. He flips through the stack of files Lila brought, piecing together the story with his own cop’s eye.

After a long silence, Tommy finally asks, “So, do you know which brother you suspect? Or… was it all three of them?”

Lila lets out a long, measured breath, keeping her face neutral. “Honestly, I don’t know. It could’ve been all three, or just one. I wish I could say for sure, but there’s nothing that points to a single brother. They’ve all got a reputation, and there’s no telling how deep it goes.” She gives him a little shrug, eyes dark and serious. “Right now, I’m not ruling anyone out.”

He nods, jaw tight, accepting her answer. She can tell he wants to ask more, but instead, he slides the papers back across the table and leans back, running a hand through his hair. “Just… be careful tonight, Lila. Promise me that much.”

She offers a faint smile, never quite letting her guard down. “I’ll do my best.”

Tommy lingers over his coffee, gaze flicking from the stack of case files to Lila’s face and back again. For a long moment, he just watches her, jaw working as if he’s weighing a dozen things he wants to say but doesn’t.

Finally, he lets out a rueful huff. “You sure you don’t want backup tonight? You could at least let me sit outside and listen to the scanner, maybe play hero if things go sideways.”

Lila grins at him, the tension easing just enough for a hint of warmth. “I thought you weren’t the jealous type.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a flash of a smile. “I’m not. But I’d rather be called a pest than have to pick up the pieces after.”

She leans back, nursing her coffee, considering. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll text you the address. Just don’t go playing cowboy unless I call for it, okay?”

Tommy lifts his hands in mock surrender. “No heroics, promise. But I’ll be a couple blocks away—just in case.”

They fall into an easier rhythm, trading a few stories and dark jokes to lighten the air before she heads out. Even if she has to go in alone, she knows he’ll be watching the shadows, ready for her call.

Chapter Text

She keeps her head down as she approaches the old jazz club—the ring. There’s new security out front, bigger and meaner than before, and a battered table set up with candles, flowers, and a grainy photograph of the murdered Lejeune brother. A makeshift memorial, crowded with offerings and muttered prayers. The usual line is smaller, more subdued. Everyone’s watching everyone else.

Lila flashes her fake ID to the door guard, feeling eyes prick her back as she’s waved through. Inside, the fighting ring is the same and different all at once—harsher lights, more wary faces, whispers that coil around her like smoke. 

Lila flashes her fake ID to the door guard, feeling eyes prick her back as she’s waved through. Inside, the fighting ring is the same and different all at once—harsher lights, more wary faces, but the noise is deafening. Shouts and cheers echo off the stained walls; the crowd is a living beast, baying for blood. Voices thunder with bets, taunts, and drunken laughter, the air thick with sweat and old spilled liquor.

In the center of the battered floor, two fighters circle each other—both halfway woged, claws bared and eyes glinting gold in the strobing light. Fists and fangs flash, the crowd howling at every strike and spatter of blood. There’s nothing secret or polite about it—everyone is on their feet, pushing for the best view, roaring with every blow.

Lila keeps her eyes cast low, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long. Even here, among monsters, a Grimm can’t risk being noticed for what she is. She slips along the back wall and finds an empty stool at the bar just behind the pit.

The bartender gives her a sharp, measuring look. She doesn’t flinch, just slides a bill across the counter and asks for a bourbon, neat. The man pours it without a word, eyes lingering on her hands and face, as if searching for a tell.

She wraps her fingers around the glass, letting the bourbon steady her, and lets the chaos of the ring wash over her. All around her, bodies press close, shouting for violence, hungry for the next rush of blood.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots both surviving Lejeune brothers, each shadowed by their own cluster of allies. Each takes turns glancing her way. She wonders, just for a second, if she’s marked for more than just a fight tonight.

She doesn’t have to wait long before the hairs on the back of her neck prickle—a predator’s intuition, sharper than any sixth sense. The crowd parts just enough for Beau Lejeune to make his way through, tall and unhurried, his presence commanding more attention than any fighter in the pit.

He slides onto the barstool next to her, not looking her way at first. Instead, he props an elbow on the counter and focuses on the chaos in the ring, lips curled in a slow, amused smile.

“Of all the joints in New Orleans, you walk into this one,” Beau says, his voice low but carrying easily through the noise. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

He glances at her sideways—those dark, jaguar eyes catching the neon for a split second, all teeth and secrets. “Couldn’t stay away from a good fight, or just hoping to see me bleed?”

Lila sips her bourbon, her own smile sharp as glass. “You know me, darlin’. Just can’t resist the local color.”

Beau laughs, deep and genuine, but there’s a dangerous edge to it. He leans in just a little, close enough for her to catch the clean spice of his cologne beneath the stink of sweat and blood. “Careful what you wish for,” he murmurs. “A night like this, you might just get it.”

Lila swirls the bourbon in her glass, matching his casual tone. “I guess I just have good taste.”

Beau laughs, but there’s no real humor in it—more of a warning. “You always hunt alone, sweetheart?”

She shoots him a look, her own smile all teeth. “You always talk to strangers at the bar, or just the ones who might bite back?”

He leans in, voice barely above the din. “Only the ones worth the risk.”

Their gazes lock, and Lila feels it—a flicker of real danger, something that tastes like adrenaline. She knows, in that instant, her cover’s blown. He’s not just flirting. He’s measuring her.

Beau turns slightly on his stool, focusing on the pit but speaking low enough for only her to hear. “Relax, Ashley. I came in peace tonight. No claws, no trouble—just talk.”

She sips her bourbon, careful to hide her tension. “That so? Since when does a Balam play diplomat?”

He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Desperate times. My brother, he’s been keeping an eye on you. And that cop you brought around. We know what you think of us.” His gaze never quite meets hers, but she can feel the weight of it. “You think one of us, maybe both, are behind all those women getting hurt.”

Lila doesn’t answer, just tips her glass and waits him out.

He keeps his voice low and even, eyes flicking to her necklace. “You’re wrong, Ashley. Neither of us had anything to do with those attacks. You want monsters, you keep looking. My family’s not your prey.”

Her expression stays easy, but her nerves burn. She doesn’t let anything slip. “Funny, everyone’s a saint when a Grimm’s around.”

Beau’s smile goes sharp. “Careful, now. I’m talking to you here, out in the open, to show I’m no trouble. Last thing you want is for me to yell ‘Grimm’ in a place like this.” His voice stays silky, but every syllable carries weight—a warning and a dare.

She meets his gaze, glass steady in her hand. “You really think you want to play that card in a room full of teeth?”

He leans back, grinning, letting the noise of the crowd swell around them. “Nope. But I want you to understand we’re not what you’re hunting. Not this time.”

Their eyes lock, the challenge as clear as the threat in the air, and for a moment, even the chaos of the ring fades behind the quiet violence of their conversation.

Beau’s grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens as he leans in, his shoulder brushing hers, the heat of him an unspoken dare. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, voice almost lost under the roar of the crowd. “But you’re hunting in the wrong direction.”

She arches an eyebrow, swirling the bourbon in her glass. “You volunteering to be my guide, or just trying to get close?”

He lets his gaze linger, dark eyes sweeping over her in a way that’s more challenge than invitation. “Depends what you’re looking for, Ashley.” His lips barely curve. “But if you’re after monsters, maybe you ought to be watching your cop instead.”

Lila almost laughs—almost. She lets the sound catch in her throat, then softens into something wry. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Beau’s expression sobers, the game turning serious. He lowers his voice, the words nearly swallowed by the shouts and cheers. “My brother broke into his place last night. Saw your cop’s files—cold cases, active ones, details that don’t belong to some patrolman. That’s detective work, and not all of it local.”

Her heart skips, though she hides it behind a small, mocking smile. “And what, you think that makes him more dangerous than you?”

He leans in closer, his mouth almost at her ear, breath warm. “I think it makes him the most dangerous kind of liar. You trust him, Ashley? Or are you just sleeping with the next predator on your list?”

He leans in closer, his mouth almost at her ear, breath warm. “I think it makes him the most dangerous kind of liar. You trust him, Ashley? Or are you just sleeping with the next predator on your list?”

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she tilts her head, letting her lips brush dangerously close to his jaw as she whispers back, “Maybe I just like the thrill. Maybe I’m the one hunting for something worth the risk.”

Beau’s eyes glitter, reading her. His hand inches just a little closer to hers on the bar—so close their knuckles almost touch. “Careful, cher. Dangerous women tend to draw dangerous company. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s doing the hunting.”

She gives a sly, knowing smile. “That’s what keeps it interesting, don’t you think?”

Before he can answer, the referee’s shout rips through the crowd—“And the winner—!”—and the pit explodes with noise, fists raised, money waving, someone howling a victory cheer that’s half animal.

Beau leans in again, voice pitched for her alone. “You know this ring’s illegal in both worlds—human and wesen. You tell your little boyfriend about this place? About where you’d be tonight?”

He’s not just teasing. It’s a warning—and a test.

She holds his gaze, refusing to break. “Why are you asking, Beau? Why does it matter if my boyfriend knows where I am?” Her tone is cool, but there’s steel underneath. “I’m not here to play games. I’m here to ask the questions—did you and your brothers assault and murder those women, or not?”

For a split second, something raw flashes in Beau’s eyes—hurt, rage, or maybe just fear. But before he can answer, he grabs her wrist—tight, not hurting, but unyielding.

“We don’t have time for this.” His voice drops to a fierce whisper. “We gotta run. Now.”

A split second later, the lights in the club strobe red and blue. Shouts erupt as cops pour through every entrance, weapons drawn. The crowd panics, Wesen in half-woge shoving past each other, bottles and fists flying.

Beau yanks her off the stool, pulling her close, his eyes deadly serious. “You wanna survive this? Trust me—right now.”

Before she can argue, they’re swallowed by the chaos, her heart hammering, every plan blown apart in a single heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Chaos explodes in the ring—cops shoving through bodies, the thunder of boots on cracked floorboards, someone screaming as a baton cracks down hard. Beau never loosens his grip, dragging Lila away from the bar just as the stampede surges their way. Glass shatters. A man gone woge claws at her jacket, but Beau’s bigger and meaner, elbowing him aside without hesitation.

“Back here!” he hisses in her ear, hauling her through a door marked “STAFF ONLY.” The sudden hush of the narrow hallway is dizzying compared to the roar outside. Lila barely gets her bearings before Beau’s dragging her past stacked crates, through clouds of spilled flour and liquor, down a rickety staircase that smells like mold and lost years.

At the end of the stairs, he shoulders open a battered door—behind it, a hidden room lined with shelves and cobwebs, crates piled high, old barrels and broken chairs. Lila catches her breath, heart pounding. “Bootlegging room?” she asks, voice hushed but almost impressed.

Beau nods once, flashing a quick, grim smile. “Back when folks had to hide their liquor. This city’s always known how to keep a secret.” He shoves aside a dusty rack and reveals a narrow brick tunnel, barely wide enough for two. Somewhere above them, the ring’s chaos continues—cops shouting, someone yelling “Get on the ground!” and the unmistakable click of handcuffs snapping shut.

Lila ducks into the tunnel after him, boots echoing on ancient brick. It’s dark, close, the air thick with old booze and sweat. She tries not to let her nerves show as they weave through the darkness, turning corners, ducking low under sagging arches.

“You do this often?” she mutters, voice just above a whisper.

“Not if I can help it.” His hand stays tight around her wrist, the contact electric. “But the Lejeunes always have an exit plan.”

They come up on a ladder, and Beau goes up first, pushing open a loose metal grate that leads straight into an alley behind the building. The night air hits her face like a slap—fresh, cold, real.

He helps her up, then shuts the grate behind them, eyes sharp, jaw clenched. The sounds of the raid are distant now, but Lila knows they’re not safe yet.

She pulls her wrist free, breathing hard, adrenaline spiking. For a moment, she and Beau lock eyes in the shadowy alley—hunter and hunted, all their old roles burned away by necessity.

“Looks like I owe you one,” she says, half breathless, half defiant.

Beau grins, brushing dust off his jacket. “Guess you do, Ashley. Guess you do.”

The alley behind the ring is slick with recent rain, neon pooling in puddles at their feet. Lila is still catching her breath when Beau turns to her, eyes cold and unblinking now that the immediate threat has passed.

“Tell me something, Ashley,” he says, voice flat and deadly. “You carrying the gun you used to murder my brother?”

Lila stiffens, meeting his gaze with a look that’s all practiced shock and offense. “I didn’t kill your brother,” she says, every syllable precise. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

But inside, her mind flashes cold and fast through the truth: the gun, heavy and hot in her hand, the jolt of the shot, and the trembling relief when she finally ditched the weapon in a dumpster three blocks from the scene.

Beau doesn’t buy her act. He closes the distance, eyes flashing gold at the edges, barely human. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, low enough that no one in the alley can hear. “We both know my brother was killed by a Grimm. You reek of it. You said you think we assaulted and killed women. So, you’re here to avenge them?”

Lila holds his stare, refusing to flinch, every muscle locked down tight. “Then you know more than the police do,” she spits back. “If you had proof, you’d already have handed me over.”

Beau’s smile is a grim slash in the dark. “Maybe I’m still deciding what to do with you, cher.”

For a heartbeat, neither moves—predator and predator, accusations twisting between them with the rain.

The tension between Lila and Beau is electric, crackling in the narrow alleyway. Neither one is backing down, but the threat of violence is thick enough to taste. Then a new voice cuts through the darkness—lazy, amused, with a smoke-rough edge.

“Well, hell. Always said my brothers had a talent for cornering pretty trouble.”

Lila and Beau turn sharply as the third Lejeune brother steps from the shadows, flicking ash from a cigarette. He’s leaner than Beau, with the same sharp jaw and predator’s grin. He takes a drag, exhaling smoke that curls around his words.

“You must be Ashley.” He nods politely, then looks to Beau with a smirk. “You grilling her, or just trying to get her alone?”

Beau scowls, but the third brother waves him off. “Doesn’t matter. Figured you’d want to know—your cop boyfriend? The one who plays hero? He set you up. Cops just raided your motel room. Tore it apart. Guess they found something they liked.”

Lila’s stomach turns cold, her heart slamming in her chest. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, a little too casual. “Your little friend’s not as loyal as you thought. Looks like he’s been busy making sure you take the fall for Cal’s murder—and whatever else they can pin on you.”

Beau’s gaze sharpens, flicking from his brother to Lila. “Told you, cher. Wrong people to trust in this city.”

The third brother grins, cigarette glowing in the gloom. “Come on, Beau. We got a lot to talk about—and so does she.”

The trap has closed, but not the way Lila expected. She’s not sure who the real enemy is anymore.

Lila stands frozen, the news slamming into her like a punch to the chest. Her mind reels—Tommy, the only person she thought she could trust, just set her up? The alley feels smaller, the brothers closing in, and every instinct screams at her to run, to fight, to do something .

But she remembers why she came. Her purpose cuts through the confusion: she’s here to end this, one way or another. She slips a hand into her jacket, pulling out one of her blades. With a practiced motion, she uncorks the vial of poison and slicks the edge, her movements quick and silent.

Beau’s eyes widen as he spots the blade glint in the shadows. “Ashley don’t,” he says, stepping between her and his brother, palms up, voice low but urgent. “This isn’t how it has to go. You want answers? We’ll give them to you. But not like this. Not tonight.”

The third brother grins, rolling his shoulders, clearly ready for the fight. “Come on, Beau. Let’s see if Grimm’s are as tough as they say.”

Lila’s breath is sharp, her stance coiled and ready. “I came here for the truth. I came for justice. So either you tell me what really happened, or we settle it right here.”

Beau moves to block his brother, tension in every line of his body. “Nobody’s dying in this alley, not tonight. Not unless you want the whole city after all of us.”

For a split second, all three stand at a crossroads—blood or answers, violence or a desperate alliance, the weight of the night pressing down on every decision.

For a heartbeat, the alley holds its breath—three predators caught in the tension between blood and confession. Lila keeps her blade steady, the poison still wet on its edge, but something in Beau’s face—the urgency, the plea—makes her hesitate. She swallows, jaw tight, and lowers her knife just an inch.

“My name’s not Ashley,” she says, voice raw but strong. “It’s Delilah. Delilah Boudreaux.”

Both brothers freeze. For a split second, the only sound is the distant wail of sirens and the sizzle of rain in the gutter. The third brother’s grin fades, his eyes going sharp. “Boudreaux?” he echoes, the name hanging heavy in the air.

Beau’s expression changes—recognition, old caution, something almost like respect. “We know that family,” he says, voice dropping. “Every wesen down here knows the Boudreaux name.”

Lila holds their gaze, every nerve buzzing. “Then you know I’m not here for sport. I’m here to finish what your brother started—or to end whoever’s left carrying his sins.”

The rain drums harder, the city closing in. No more lies. Just the truth, and whatever comes next.

Both brothers exchange a look, something flickering between them—loss, anger, and maybe even desperation. The third brother speaks first, his voice hard but not cruel. “You’ve got it wrong, Delilah. Our brother—Cal—he wasn’t a saint. Hell, he was trouble since the day he could walk. But he never laid hands on a woman who didn’t want it. Never killed anyone, not a day in his life. And neither have we.”

Beau nods, eyes locked on hers. “We run cons, sure. We fight, we steal, we break a lot of rules. But hurting women? Murder? That’s not our kind of evil.” His jaw tightens, anger twisting his face. “Doesn’t matter what we say, though. A Grimm hears ‘Lejeune’ and thinks the worst.”

The third brother tosses his cigarette to the wet pavement, grinding it out with his heel. “But you’re a Grimm—so what’s the point in talking? You made up your mind the second you saw us.”

For a moment, Lila feels the weight of every woman’s case file in her bag—and the cold possibility that she’s been chasing the wrong monster all along.

Lila’s fingers tighten around the blade as the rain suddenly intensifies, pounding the alley until it’s hard to hear anything but thunder and her own ragged breath. She shakes her head, the weight of every case file burning in her chest.

“Proof?” she snaps, voice cutting through the rain. “You want to talk proof? I have sketches, police reports, women who survived described you and your brother down to the scar on his chin.” She jabs the blade at the third brother, her eyes bright and furious. “There’s even a security tape with one of you near a victim’s home the night she disappeared. You think I can just let that slide because you say you’re innocent?”

Beau steps forward, palms up but jaw set. “Sketches, tapes—they prove we were in the neighborhood. That’s all. Half of this city could say the same.” His brother snorts, arms crossed. “You’re a Grimm, Delilah. You claim to see monsters everywhere.”

For a long moment, Lila says nothing—just stands in the downpour, water streaming down her face, hair plastered to her neck. Lightning flashes behind her eyes, memories sharp as knives. Marie would have ended this. Would have killed them both and cleaned up the questions later. No mercy. No hesitation. That’s what it meant to be a Boudreaux, to be a Grimm.

But something in her twists against that old lesson. She stares at Beau and his brother, soaked and defiant, their chests heaving with more fear than fury. They’re criminals, sure—liars, thieves, and worse—but there’s something almost human in the way they stand together, something she can’t quite kill, not like this. Not after what happened with Cal. Not when the blood is still fresh on her hands.

Her grip on the blade loosens just a fraction. She doesn’t want to be Marie tonight. Doesn’t want to be judge, jury, and executioner, not unless she’s certain. And for the first time, she isn’t. The weight of every woman’s case file, every haunting detail, wars with the raw, uncertain truth beating in her own chest.

She stands there, shaking, caught in the storm and in her own doubts. Not sure if letting them go is a mistake—or if killing them would damn her forever.

The storm drowns out everything for a moment—her doubts, the brothers’ accusations, even her own breath. Lila’s blade shakes in her hand, fury and guilt tangled up so tight she could scream. “Goddamn it,” she curses under her breath, voice sharp and bitter, “I can’t let you out of my sight. Not now. Not until I see the motel for myself and figure out what the hell’s going on.”

Beau’s brother, Ray, gives her a slow, sardonic grin. He pulls out his phone, flicking his thumb over the screen. “You don’t have to take my word for it, Boudreaux. Got the whole raid right here.”

He turns the screen to her. Grainy video footage plays—cops storming her motel room, overturning drawers, flashing lights on the rain-wet parking lot. Her things scattered everywhere, and in the chaos, a gloved hand coming away with the battered Grimm trunk.

Ray pockets his phone, then meets her eyes, voice low and mocking but not unkind. “Don’t worry. Against all better judgment of Wesen-kind, I saved your Grimm box of death. Figured you’d be a little lost without it, Grimmy.”

A million responses burn on Lila’s tongue, but all she can do is curse again—soft, furious, and defeated. “Motherfucker…”

The brothers exchange a look that’s equal parts challenge and invitation. “So,” Beau says, voice pitched just for her, “what’s it gonna be, Delilah? We running, or are you still hunting?”

Lila wipes rain from her face, fingers still trembling, and tucks her blade away. “Alright,” she mutters, voice gritty, “truce. But only because I’m too pissed and too tired to stab anyone right now.”

Both brothers stare at her—half wary, half amused.

She takes a steadying breath, then surprises them both. “But first? Smile.” She fishes her phone out of her soaked jacket, flips the camera, and squeezes herself between the two tall men. “If I’m going down, I want the world to know who I was with.”

Beau and Ray stare at her like she’s lost her mind, but she elbows them both until they lean in—one grinning with disbelief, the other deadpan. Lila flashes a wicked, wild smile, snaps the selfie, and thumbs open her messages.

The photo pings off to Tommy with a single line: Big fuck you.
No explanation. No location. Just her, alive, with the two men he set her up to kill.

She holds the phone up, lets the rain batter it, then slams it down hard on the curb. The glass shatters. She stomps it for good measure, grinding the remains into the wet concrete.

“No more trackers,” she says, her voice shaking with adrenaline and something dangerously close to laughter. “No more little surprises. From now on, if someone wants me dead, they’re gonna have to do it face to face.”

The brothers look at her with something like respect—finally, a true truce forged in blood, rain, and defiance.

Chapter Text

The rain lets up just enough to feel like a warning instead of a flood as Lila grinds her broken phone into the curb. The alley, slick and littered with shattered glass, feels like the end of a bad dream and the start of something even riskier.

She stands beside the Lejeune brothers—no longer just prey or suspects, but something far messier: uneasy allies bound by betrayal and the blood on all their hands. For a long moment, the three of them just breathe in the silence, rainwater running down their faces, none of them sure if this new alliance will last the night.

Beau is the first to move, glancing down at her with that old, wary charm. “So what now, Grimm?”

Lila straightens her jacket, her lips still twisted in a defiant grin. “Now we get my trunk back. Then we figure out who really set us all up.”

Ray laughs under his breath, lighting another cigarette. “Didn’t think I’d see the day we’d be running with a Boudreaux.”

She flashes him a knife instead, the steel catching a glimmer of neon as she grins up at him. "Careful, Ray. The night is still young. And trust me—there's more than one way to skin a cat."

They step out of the alley together, eyes sharp for threats on every side. It’s a fragile truce, and New Orleans is far from safe, but for the first time Lila isn’t running alone. Not tonight.

⚘   ❀   ⚘   ❀   ⚘   ❀   ⚘   ❀   ⚘

Ray leads the way, flicking his cigarette ashes into the gutter as he nods toward a battered old pickup parked a block down under a flickering streetlamp. The bed is covered by a heavy black tarp, rain pooling in the creases.

Lila trails a half-step behind, every muscle coiled tight, her senses sharp for any sign of a double-cross. She glances down every alley, checks rooftops, keeps her blade close and her mind closer. The city is a patchwork of shadows and broken promises—she knows better than to trust anyone, even uneasy allies.

Ray pops the tailgate, and with a dramatic flourish, pulls back the tarp to reveal her Grimm trunk, wedged between a battered cooler and a crowbar. “See? Told you I saved your precious box of death,” he says, mouth twisted in a sly grin.

Beau circles the truck, eyes scanning the street as he stands guard. Lila hesitates only a moment before reaching for her trunk, testing the weight, her pulse pounding in her ears. She’s ready for any trap, any trick—but for now, the trunk is untouched.

She catches Ray watching her, like he’s waiting for her to thank him or stab him. She just narrows her eyes. “Don’t get sentimental on me now, catboy.”

He laughs, climbing into the cab. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She just grunts and lifts the trunk into the back seat, never once letting her guard down. Beau gets in the passenger side, eyes sweeping the street, while Lila climbs into the back, trunk beside her, hand still curled around the hilt of her knife.

The truck rumbles to life, wipers squeaking over the glass. They drive in tense silence for a while, the city sliding past in blurs of neon and rain. Ray tries to make a joke about “Grimm girls and their baggage,” but the words fall flat, tension thick as ever.

Lila leans her head against the cool window, half-listening to the brothers talk quietly up front. She can’t stop replaying everything in her mind. Tommy’s smile, the way he played at being jealous, the quick hands and quicker lies.

She can’t even hate him for it, she realizes. Not really. He was playing the game just like she was, trying to protect himself, trying to survive. If their roles were reversed, she might have done the same. He was suspicious—of her, of the murders, of Cal’s blood on her hands. And he was right to be. She did kill Cal. She isn’t innocent, and Tommy knew it.

But that doesn’t make the sting of betrayal hurt any less. She hates being played, hates being outmaneuvered. That’s what eats at her most.

The truck lurches through a pothole, snapping her out of her thoughts. Outside, the storm has passed, but inside the cab, the tension still hangs heavy.

Ray leads them through the winding backstreets, the battered pickup shuddering with every pothole. They pull up outside a run-down motel clinging to the city’s edge. A neon sign blinks tired red over cracked asphalt and crooked doors, painting everything with a washed-out, bloody glow.

Beau disappears into the office, pays for a single room with a wad of crumpled bills, no names exchanged, no questions asked. Ray and Lila heft her trunk up the narrow stairs, every step creaking under their weight. The brothers move with a kind of practiced caution, always glancing over their shoulders, and Lila matches their pace, her hand never far from her blade.

They claim the last room at the end of the walkway. The door sticks, groaning before it gives, and inside, the air is stale, heavy with old cigarette smoke and damp. Two beds sag beneath mismatched blankets. The dresser is missing a handle, and the bathroom door hangs crooked on its hinges.

It’s not much, but it’s quiet. For now, that’s enough. Lila sets her Grimm trunk down by the wall, her eyes running over every lock, every window, the bolt on the door. She’s counting exits without even thinking about it.

Ray throws himself down on one bed, boots propped up, acting like he owns the place. Beau stands watch by the window, his shoulders tense as he peers out through the curtains. Lila claims the other bed, sits cross-legged with her back pressed to the wall, trunk close enough to touch.

The silence between them is thick and strange. Yesterday they were enemies. Tonight, they’re something else—maybe just survivors, maybe something more dangerous. For a moment, it feels less like safety and more like the uneasy calm before a storm.

Inside the motel room, Lila settles on the bed and lets her thoughts spin out behind her eyes. This truce feels paper thin. She knows sooner or later the truth will crawl out from whatever corner she’s tried to bury it in. When the brothers finally put all the pieces together—when they know for certain she’s the one who killed Cal—how long will any of this last? How long before this uneasy alliance turns into a death sentence for her?

She tells herself she’ll cross that bridge when she gets there. Maybe she’ll find a way to outrun it, maybe not. Either way, tonight she needs them more than they need her.

She glances at the brothers—Ray’s laughter already fading, Beau brooding at the window. They’re still suspects, no matter what stories they spin. The case files, the tape, the sketches: all those women with fear in their eyes, begging for justice. That’s what matters. If she has to sleep with one eye open, so be it.

For now, the hunt isn’t over. And Lila Boudreaux is still looking for monsters—whether they’re in the next room, or right here with her.

The motel room feels thick with secrets and exhaustion. Lila glances at Ray, her voice low but direct. “You spied on Tommy and me. You said he had too much paperwork on him for being just a cop. What did you mean by that?”

Ray, stretched out on the bed, looks over with a shrug, a hint of a grin still on his lips. “Most street cops don’t haul around case files, not like that. A beat cop runs tickets, patrols, breaks up fights. Detectives, though? They’re the ones buried in paperwork—evidence logs, interview transcripts, cold case binders stacked up a mile high.”

He swings his feet to the floor, stubbing out his cigarette in an empty can. “Your boy Tommy? He had both cold and active cases—ones that didn’t match his badge or his beat. That’s detective work, not patrol. Which means he’s either working off the books, or he’s more involved than he lets on.”

Beau shoots Lila a look from the window, the question unspoken but clear. “You trust him?”

Lila just folds her arms across her chest, her mind racing, realizing that in a city like this, nobody is exactly what they seem.

Lila nods, weighing that. “I trust he wants to solve the case,” she says after a moment. 

She leans forward, voice sharper. “If you’re innocent, then who do you think is trying to frame you and your brothers?”

Ray glances at Beau, and Beau just shakes his head, jaw tight. “Somebody’s trying to get us out of the way. Could be anyone with a grudge in this city. Could even be another Wesen. But if they’re using a Grimm to do it…” He meets Lila’s gaze, something haunted in his eyes. “That means it’s someone who knows exactly how to set us up.”

Lila’s stomach tightens. She’s hunting a shadow—one smart enough to play her, the brothers, and even Tommy against each other.

“If you trust your cop,” Ray says quietly, “maybe that’s your mistake. Maybe he wants this case solved, sure—but maybe he wants to solve it his way. Wouldn’t be the first time a badge played both sides down here.”

Beau nods, arms crossed. “It’s a hell of a setup. Evidence points at us, witnesses line up, and a Grimm just happens to show up at the right time? What if Tommy isn’t just playing you, Lila? What if he’s the one pulling strings?”

Lila’s about to answer when her stomach betrays her, growling loud enough to cut the tension. She sighs, shakes her head. “Guess I forgot to eat with all the running for my life.”

Beau smirks, grabs his keys, and heads for the door. “I’ll get us something before the city shuts down. Try not to kill each other before I get back.”

Ray stretches out on his bed, arms folded behind his head, cigarette hanging from his lip. He watches Lila with the lazy suspicion of a cat that’s not sure if it should pounce or nap. The silence in the room isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either—just a truce holding by threads.

“You ever get tired of looking over your shoulder, Boudreaux?” he asks, blowing smoke toward the stained ceiling. “Or is paranoia just part of the Grimm starter pack?”

Lila shrugs, glancing at her Grimm trunk. “Paranoia’s just another word for staying alive. I figured a Lejeune would get that.”

Ray grins around the cigarette. “Touché. Maybe we got more in common than we thought.” He flicks ashes into a half-empty beer can and eyes her with something like respect. “But don’t expect me to start trusting you just because you look cute with a knife.”

She smirks, relaxing against the headboard. “I don’t expect you to trust me. Just don’t try to stab me while I sleep.”

Ray laughs, a real sound this time, and tips his head back. “Not unless you deserve it, Grimm.”

They share a crooked smile, the kind that only two people who know they could kill each other ever really share.

 Ray sits up, stubs out his cigarette, and fixes Lila with a steady, appraising look.

“You keep talking about these case files. You got proof, or just stories?” he asks, voice low, not quite challenging.

Lila’s tempted to snap back, but there’s something about Ray’s tone—more curiosity than threat. She pushes herself up from the bed, crosses to her Grimm trunk, and pulls out her battered laptop, along with a fat envelope of photocopied reports.

Ray whistles. “Old school. Guess Grimms really do like their paper trail.”

She settles back on the bed, flipping open the laptop, and gestures for him to come over. “You wanted to see what I’ve got? Be my guest. But don’t try to run off with anything, or you’ll find out how many knives I can hide in these boots.”

He grins, sliding off his bed to sit next to her. For a minute, their shoulders almost touch, both watching as she pulls up files—photos, police sketches, survivor statements. The glow of the screen makes the room feel smaller, almost private.

Ray studies the images, frowning as he recognizes faces, places, the shape of his own brother’s scar in one of the sketches. He looks over at her, and for once, there’s no smirk in his eyes. Just the quiet, wary respect of one survivor to another.

“Hell of a mess,” he mutters.

“Welcome to my life,” Lila says, voice softer now. “Maybe you’ll see why I can’t just take anyone’s word for it.”

He studies a sketch of Cal, brow furrowing. “That’s my brother, all right. But you gotta understand—Cal was no angel, but he never hurt women. Neither did Beau, and sure as hell not me. We don’t hunt like that. It ain’t in us.”

Lila glances at him, searching for any flicker of a lie, but all she sees is exhaustion and a desperate kind of pride.

Ray keeps his gaze on the reports, voice growing rough. “We run grifts, yeah. Been in more fights than I can count. But murder? No. Not even close. Somebody wants us gone. Somebody who knows what buttons to push, what faces to draw for a Grimm to find.”

He leans back a little, shoulders brushing hers. “You ever think about who might want us gone, Boudreaux? Or are you so used to hunting, you forget monsters don’t always look like us?”

For a moment, Lila feels the doubt settle into her bones. The hunt, the hunger for justice, the pressure to live up to Marie’s legacy. Maybe it’s all made her see the world too simply.

But Ray doesn’t press his advantage. He just gives her a tired, sideways smile, the kind that says he’s used to not being believed. “If you figure out who’s framing us, you let me be there when you take them down. Deal?”

The door creaks open, cutting Ray off. Beau steps inside, his arms full of paper sacks and the scent of fried food filling the room. “Figured you two’d be ready to kill each other by now, so I brought peace offerings.”

He sets the bags on the dresser, glancing at the laptop and the files spread out. “You two getting cozy or plotting revenge?”

Lila just smirks, closing her laptop and stretching her legs out. “We’ll call it research. What’d you bring?”

Beau shrugs, dropping onto his bed with a carton of fries. “Enough for all of us to regret it tomorrow.”

Ray flashes her a small, private smile, then digs in, the tension between them settling into something more like partnership—at least for tonight.

“Before we eat, we set a plan,” she says, voice leaving no room for argument. “Tomorrow, we go back to the diner. Maybe the bar, if it feels safer. I need to meet with Tommy again, face to face. I need to know what he’s playing at—and if he’s the one setting us up, I want to see it in his eyes.”

Ray watches her carefully, wiping ketchup from his fingers. “You sure that’s smart, meeting him again? If he’s behind this, he’ll be ready for you.”

Lila just shrugs, grabbing a handful of fries, her eyes never leaving the brothers. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll be expecting me. But this time, I’m not going alone.”

Chapter Text

The new motel room is thick with the smell of old fries, rain-soaked clothes, and nerves nobody’s willing to show. Lila sits at the battered desk, methodically cleaning and sharpening her knives, each careful drag of the whetstone a quiet warning. She moves with the slow confidence of someone who’s made a habit of surviving the night.

Behind her, the Lejeune brothers keep their voices low, arguing in the kind of hush that means secrets. Words slip in and out of the shadows: Beau’s tone sharp and insistent, Ray’s easygoing swagger edged now with something harder. Every so often, they glance her way, then close ranks again, as if she can’t hear them even with her back turned.

It’s not the first time she’s heard men plot behind her back, but with these two, the tension is different—family anger, maybe, or a plan she isn’t in on yet. Lila doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause. The knives get sharper with every pass, her silence a warning and a promise all at once.

After a few minutes of blades scraping and muttered whispers, Lila finally slams her knife down a little harder than necessary. “You two done with your little soap opera? Or do I need to remind you I’ve got ears—and steel?”

Ray throws his hands up, grinning just enough to be cocky. “Aw, don’t worry, Grimm. We’re just discussing your next suicide mission.”

Beau gives Ray a look, then turns to Lila, his voice flat but honest. “I don’t like you meeting Tommy. Especially not at the diner. Too many eyes, too many things that could go sideways. But—” He hesitates, weighing the idea in his head before he speaks. “There’s a way to make it easier. Safer for you, at least.”

Ray shifts, not even pretending to hide his scowl now. “Don’t like it, Beau. Not one bit.”

Beau ignores him. “That diner, it’s run by a clan. Wesen. I’m not getting into the details, but they control what happens in their walls. If you let me put a specific scent on you, their kind will know to protect you. At least while you’re inside. Long as the scent’s fresh, nobody local will lay a finger on you.”

Ray scoffs, shaking his head. “Hell, no. Bad idea. You mark her up and she’s everyone’s business. Or worse, she gets noticed by the wrong crowd.”

Beau looks at Lila, jaw set. “It’s your call. You walk in alone, you might as well be painting a target on your back. This way, you get a chance to see what Tommy’s playing at and get out in one piece.”

Ray mutters something under his breath, pacing by the window, but Beau waits, patient and stubborn, for her answer.

Finally, Lila sets her knife down, eyeing them over her shoulder. “Mark me up? Is this a sex thing? Because if so, I expect dinner first.”

Ray’s grin is instant, lazy and wicked. “Oh, it absolutely can be, sugar. Depends on how wild you like it.”

Beau just rolls his eyes. “It’s not a sex thing. It’s family business. Balam thing. We call it bunting. All you have to do is share a bed with us while I’m woged for the night. My scent’ll cling to you long enough for the clan at the diner to recognize you’re under protection.”

Ray smirks, throwing in, “Mating’s a hell of a lot more effective, but Beau’s right. Same bed’ll do the job. Safer, less scandal.”

Beau ignores the jab, his eyes steady on Lila. “You want to get in and out of that diner alive, this is the best way. Nobody local’s gonna cross nor let harm to someone marked by a family of a Balam. Not unless they’re crazy or non-traditional.”

Ray throws in, “Not saying fucking is off the table, but hey, we’re professionals. We can keep our paws to ourselves… unless you ask real nice, Grimmy.”

Beau just shakes his head, lips twitching. “Ignore him. I promise, you’ll survive the night—and the diner—without losing your virtue. Or your knives.”

Lila leans back, lips curving in a slow, wicked smile. “We’ll see who survives the night, boys. But if either of you so much as purrs in your sleep, I’m cutting off someone’s tail.”

Ray puts a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Grimm’s got claws.”

Lila keeps her hands busy and goes back to her  knives, but her mind is already circling the edge of this new game. She’s fucked plenty of Wesen before—sometimes for information, sometimes just to get close to a mark, sometimes because the tension made it feel inevitable. It was always a tool, a way to shift the power in her favor, or to remind herself she wasn’t afraid. Hell, she’s even bedded the monsters she was sent to kill.

But never like this. Never with the mask off, with both sides knowing exactly what the other is. Never with the word “Grimm” hanging between her and the beast in the dark. She’s never shared a bed with a Wesen who knew what she was and still offered a kind of intimacy she couldn’t buy or bluff or fight for. “Bunting,” Beau called it. It sounded too much like something animals did in the wild, pressing close for comfort, marking territory, letting scent linger like a brand.

It was a risk—a vulnerability, a kind of trust, even if it was just about survival. Lila doesn’t like the idea of letting any of them get close enough to claim her, not even for a single night. But she also can’t ignore the advantage. If letting Beau mark her gives her even a sliver of protection among the local Wesen, puts her a step ahead of Tommy, and buys her another day alive in this city, she’ll grit her teeth and take it.

Still, something about it feels different. It feels personal. Too close.

Lila keeps her hands busy with the knives, but her mind is already circling the edge of this new game. She’s fucked plenty of Wesen before—sometimes for information, sometimes just to get close to a mark, sometimes because the tension made it feel inevitable. It was always a tool, a way to shift the power in her favor, or to remind herself she wasn’t afraid. Hell, she’s even bedded the monsters she was sent to kill, breathing in their secrets with their sweat.

But never like this. Never with the mask off, with both sides knowing exactly what the other is. Never with the word “Grimm” hanging between her and the beast in the dark. She’s never shared a bed with a Wesen who knew what she was and still offered a kind of intimacy she couldn’t buy or bluff or fight for. “Bunting,” Beau called it. It sounded too much like something animals did in the wild, pressing close for comfort, marking territory, letting scent linger like a brand.

It was a risk—a vulnerability, a kind of trust, even if it was just about survival. Lila doesn’t like the idea of letting any of them get close enough to claim her, not even for a single night. But she also can’t ignore the advantage. If letting Beau mark her gives her even a sliver of protection among the local Wesen, puts her a step ahead of Tommy, and buys her another day alive in this city, she’ll grit her teeth and take it.

Still, something about it feels different. It feels personal. Too close. But Lila’s survived too much to flinch now. If there’s a cost, she’ll pay it tomorrow. Tonight, she’ll take whatever edge she can get.

Lila slides her knives into their sheaths, stands, and pops open her Grimm trunk. She digs past cold iron, old files, and spare ammo until she finds a pair of faded pajama shorts and a tank top—worn, comfortable, more armor than softness.

She slings the clothes over her arm and fixes the brothers with a look that says she’s in control, no matter what the night brings. “I’m grabbing a shower. Don’t get any ideas and don’t try to follow me. If either of you picks that lock, I’ll gut you before you hit the linoleum.”

Ray throws his hands up, grinning. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sugar. Scout’s honor.”

Beau just nods, arms crossed. “Take your time. We’ll be right here.”

She heads for the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her. The hum of hot water on old tile fills the space, a rare bit of privacy. Lila lets the heat work the kinks from her muscles, breathing deep. Tonight she’ll let a Balam mark her, not with blood or sex, but something even stranger—trust.

When she’s finished, she towels off, pulls on her pajamas, and steels herself for whatever the night demands. Then she unlocks the door and steps back into the room, hair damp, feet bare, knives still close at hand.

The Lejeune brothers fall silent, watching her cross to the bed. For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Then Beau shifts, his eyes dark and serious, shoulders squared.

“You ready, Grimm?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.

Lila nods, holding his gaze, heart steady and sharp. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

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  BALAM

Physical Characteristics

When woged, the Balam displays the fierce visage of the jaguar—golden eyes that gleam with predatory intelligence, pronounced canine teeth capable of crushing bone, and retractable claws that can rend flesh from bone. Their human form often retains subtle feline grace in movement and an uncanny ability to move without sound.

Behavioral Traits

The Balam are creatures of intense familial bonds, exhibiting behaviors both endearing and dangerous to those who cross their kin.

Combat Capabilities

• Enhanced strength and agility
• Razor-sharp retractable claws
• Powerful jaw capable of crushing vertebrae
• Natural stealth and hunting instincts
• Pack coordination with family units

Weaknesses

Their fierce family loyalty can be exploited—threatening a family member will cause a Balam to abandon strategy for immediate, often reckless action.

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"The Balam's greatest strength is also their greatest weakness—love makes them both protector and fool."
— Grimm Family Archives, Volume XII

16th Entry on Balam

GRIMM JOURNAL - DELILAH "LILA" 

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Date:I don't want to remember
Location: Shitty motel, somewhere I don't want to be
Wesen Type: Balam (Jaguar-like)
New Intel: Bunting behavior

BUNTING - What the fuck is this?

So apparently Wesen have their own version of a hall pass, and it involves sharing a bed like some kind of sleepover from hell. The Lejeune brothers just dropped this little gem on me tonight.

What it is: Balam (and probably other cat-type Wesen) do this thing called "bunting" where they rub their scent on family members or people under their protection. Not sexual—though Ray made it clear that's always an option if I'm asking nice. Charming.

How it works: Spend the night in the same bed while the Balam is woged. Their scent transfers to you, and other Wesen recognize you as being under that family's protection. Like wearing a gang's colors, but with more purring and less dignity.

Duration: Beau says it lasts long enough to get through whatever you need to do. Doesn't fade immediately, but it's not permanent either. Good thing, because I don't need to smell like jaguar for the rest of my fucking life.

TACTICAL NOTES

Advantages:

• Local Wesen won't touch you while the scent's fresh
• Gives you safe passage in territories controlled by that clan
• Doesn't require actual sex or blood bonding (small mercies)

Disadvantages:

• Makes you everyone's business—other Wesen will notice
• Could attract unwanted attention from rival families
• Requires trusting the Balam not to cross lines while you're vulnerable
• Personal as hell, even if it's "just business"

Combat Applications:

• Infiltration tool for hostile Wesen territories
• Could buy you time to complete a mission
• Might prevent immediate attacks in unfamiliar areas

PERSONAL ASSESSMENT

I've fucked plenty of monsters. Sometimes for intel, sometimes to get close to a mark, sometimes because the job got messy and lines blurred. It was always a weapon—my choice, my control, my terms.

This is different.

This is letting a Wesen claim me, even temporarily. It's admitting I need protection instead of being the thing other people need protection from. It's vulnerability dressed up as strategy, and I hate how much sense it makes.

But if it keeps me alive long enough to figure out what Tommy's playing at, I'll swallow my pride and let Beau mark me up like a territory flag. I've survived worse than sharing a bed with a jaguar who knows exactly what I am.

Still feels too close. Too personal. But close doesn't kill you—careless does.

Bottom line: Useful tactical knowledge. File under "things that might keep you breathing another day." Also file under "reasons to sleep with one eye open and all your knives in reach."

Note: Ray thinks this is hilarious. Beau thinks it's practical. I think they're both insane, but insane allies beat dead heroes every damn time.

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Chapter Text

Beau’s woge is quiet at first—a ripple under the skin, eyes deepening to gold, his cheekbones sharpening. He moves slowly, deliberate, giving her a chance to back out. Lila doesn’t flinch. She’s done this dance before, but never like this—never lying down with a wesen, fully aware of what she is.

She sits on the bed, crossing her legs, arms folded, knife set within reach but untouched. Beau sits beside her, his scent suddenly different, warmer, heavier, something feline and wild beneath the motel’s stale air. Ray, for once, keeps his distance—half-watching, half-amused, but respectful enough not to crowd her.

Beau leans in, the shift in him unmistakable. He presses his cheek lightly against her bare shoulder, then the crown of her head, brushing his jaw and the bridge of his nose in slow, almost ritual motions. It’s gentle but undeniably animal—a claiming, a promise, a warning to anyone who might cross her. She sits still, heart beating fast, letting him finish.

His breath stirs the fine hairs at her neck. Lila feels the heat, the tension, the strange comfort of being marked by something wild. The scent—musky, powerful, a thread of electricity—settles on her skin.

Beau finally pulls back, his eyes still gold and wild. “That’s it. Scent’ll hold so long as you stay close tonight. Nobody from the clan will touch you—not in that diner, not while you smell like me.”

Lila hesitates only a moment, then slides under the thin motel blanket, settling on her side. Beau stretches out next to her, his warmth radiating through the covers, his presence heavy and grounding. He doesn’t touch her outright, but their bodies are close, his arm draped behind her pillow, the scent of him sinking into her hair and skin. After a minute, he shifts just enough that his chest brushes her shoulder—an unspoken assurance, a gentle but primal claim.

Ray watches from his own bed, amusement in his voice. “Careful, Grimm. You two keep this up and I’ll start charging for the show.”

Lila shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Ray, if you don’t quit staring, I swear to God I’ll gut you before sunrise. Go to sleep, you absolute creep.”

Ray just chuckles, clearly enjoying every second of her discomfort, but he rolls over and faces the wall, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Y’all be boring, then.”

She huffs, jaw tight, but doesn’t move away from Beau. The tension is still there—hot, uncomfortable, heavy as ever—but it’s better than being hunted. She tries to settle, forcing herself to breathe slow and keep one eye half open, every muscle tight with irritation.

She turns away from Ray, dragging the blanket higher, but the air between her and Beau only thickens. He’s woged—she can feel it even without looking, the subtle change in his breathing, the deeper rumble of his chest. Every time she thinks about reaching for a knife, she remembers he’s a Balam, that with one swipe of his claws or a snap of his fangs, he could tear her apart before she even blinked.

Still, she won’t flinch. Won’t show fear. Instead, she lies rigid as Beau settles close, the animal heat of him radiating through the thin motel sheets. He never makes a move, never tries to touch her on purpose—but sometimes, when they both shift or when her foot brushes his shin, she feels the unmistakable softness of fur against her bare skin. It sends a jolt up her spine every time, equal parts warning and thrill.

His breath is warm on the back of her neck, and she’s acutely aware of every inch that separates—or doesn’t separate—them. The tension is a live wire: the knife at her side, the claws he could bare at any second, the primal, maddening closeness of hunter and hunted.

Lila spends half the night daring herself to stab him, the other half daring herself to roll over and see if he’d stop her. Every accidental touch is electric, and nothing about the arrangement feels safe.

Tonight, she’s not alone. And if danger has a scent, it’s the musk of Balam fur pressed soft against her thigh in the dark.

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The next morning, the sun barely makes it through the clouds. Lila sits alone at a corner booth in the diner, still smelling faintly of motel soap and borrowed fur. The place is half-empty—just the clatter of dishes, the hiss of the coffee machine, and the distant crackle of an old radio.

She dials a number from a fresh burner phone, voice pitched low as she leaves a message on Marie’s voicemail. “Hey. That’s my new number for now. Call me as soon as you review the case files. You said your nephew is a detective…maybe he can help because there is something really wrong with this one. Bye.”

She ends the call, slipping the phone into her jacket pocket just as the waitress arrives with a mug of black coffee. “Ready to order, hon?”

Lila gives a tired smile. “Yeah. I’ll take the breakfast plate. Eggs over hard, bacon crispy, extra toast. And keep the coffee coming.”

The waitress nods and disappears. Lila sips her coffee, watching the door, trying to look like just another woman waiting for a friend.

But her nerves are tight, and every bite will taste like waiting.

Lila keeps her eyes on the diner’s glass door, nursing her coffee and willing herself to look relaxed. Every minute that ticks by, she expects Tommy to walk through—gun on his hip, secrets in his eyes—or for her burner to buzz with a call back from Marie.

But it’s not just Tommy she’s waiting for. As the breakfast crowd trickles in, Lila catches the sideways glances. A few regulars eye her with wary curiosity. One grizzled man at the counter sniffs the air as he passes her booth, lips twitching in a barely disguised frown. Another woman, sweeping crumbs from a table, pauses, scenting the space between them before moving on.

A cold realization slides through her: the scent bunting is working. Too well, maybe. She can’t tell how many are just curious, and how many would bare their fangs if she wasn’t wearing Beau’s mark. For a moment, the urge to reach for the knife hidden at her hip is nearly overwhelming—a hardwired habit she fights to keep under control.

She keeps her hands wrapped around her coffee cup, knuckles white. Every sense is screaming, but she forces herself to stay still, to keep her breathing even, to look like she belongs—just another hungry, tired local waiting on her breakfast and her luck.

Lila drums her fingers on the chipped Formica tabletop, watching the door and resisting the urge to check over her shoulder. The weight of too many eyes in the diner presses against her spine. She can feel the locals sniffing her scent—most hiding it, some not even bothering. The room is thick with silent suspicion, the kind only Wesen can carry.

She can’t wait any longer. Reaching into her jacket, Lila pulls out a second burner phone. She dials Tommy’s number from memory, the digits familiar as her own scars. She keeps her eyes down, her voice low as the phone rings.

He answers after the third ring, wary but trying to sound casual. “Yeah?”

She keeps it businesslike, not giving away her new number. “It’s me. I need to meet. Now. Diner on Decatur, fifteen minutes. Come alone.”

A pause. Tommy’s tone tightens. “You okay?”

“I will be. Just get here.” She hangs up before he can say more, slipping the phone back into her pocket.

Her hands shake, just a little, as the waitress sets down her plate of eggs and bacon. Lila forces herself to eat, counting the seconds, knowing this call could decide everything.

As soon as she hangs up, Lila feels the tension ratchet tighter in her chest. She pushes a piece of toast around her plate, barely tasting it, her eyes flicking between the diner’s entrance and the clock on the wall.

Tommy is a good cop—smart, determined, stubborn as hell. And now he’s hunting her. She doesn’t know if he’ll come alone, like she asked, or if the next thing she’ll hear is sirens and a badge in her face. Trusting him was always a risk, but now it feels more like a dare.

Every nerve in her body is on high alert. Was calling him here a mistake? Is he watching from outside, waiting for backup, or is he coming in ready to listen? The uncertainty gnaws at her, makes the room feel smaller, the stares sharper.

She glances at the locals again—some curious, some openly sniffing the air as they pass her booth. She fights the urge to palm her knife, knowing too many people are watching already.

Unable to shake the unease settling in her gut, Lila pulls out her phone beneath the table and fires off two quick texts—one to Ray, one to Beau. Both exits covered? Heads up: Tommy inbound.

Seconds later, her screen lights up. Ray’s reply is quick and cocky: I got the alley.. Beau’s is more clipped, but steady: Front’s clear. Some of the pressure eases from her shoulders. She’s not alone in this, not entirely. If Tommy’s got backup or plans to pull anything, at least she won’t be blindsided.

The bell above the diner door jingles ten minutes later. Tommy steps inside, dressed casual, rain on his jacket, eyes scanning the room fast. He spots her almost immediately and makes his way over, every line of his body tense, every movement practiced.

Lila’s grip tightens on her coffee cup as he slides into the booth across from her. The smell of city rain and aftershave cuts through the thick scent of breakfast and Wesen.

He doesn’t smile. “You said it was urgent.”

She doesn’t look away. “It is. Sit down, Tommy. Let’s see which one of us walks out of here.”

Chapter Text

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Lila’s gaze flicks to Tommy, and for a moment the noise of the diner dulls under the weight of what sits between them. Her chest still aches with the sting of his betrayal, the memory of his easy smile now soured by suspicion. She doesn’t let it show—doesn’t give him the satisfaction—but the hurt is there, simmering under her skin.

Her phone rests in her hand, screen lit, a lifeline to the brothers stationed outside. Every few seconds her thumb brushes across it, checking for any sign of trouble: a text, a warning. Nothing yet.

She takes a measured breath, keeping her voice low enough to blend with the clink of coffee cups around them. “Why’d you set me up, Tommy?” Her eyes lift just enough to meet his, steady and unblinking. “I thought we were on the same side—catching whoever’s been hurting these women.”

Tommy’s brows pull together, genuine confusion crossing his face. “Set you up? Lila, I never set you up.” His voice is low but steady, like he’s trying to talk her down from a ledge. “We got an anonymous tip—said you were the one who killed Clay… and that you’ve been behind the attacks on those other victims."

He leans in, eyes searching hers. “I tried to talk my captain out of it, told him there was no way, but the evidence they threw at me…” He shakes his head slowly. “It was too strong. Crime scene photos. Witness statements. Enough to make anyone look guilty. Enough to make them look at you instead of anyone else.”

There’s a beat of silence, just the hum of the diner around them. “I’m not here to burn you, Lila. I’m here to find out who fed that to us—and why they want you gone.”

Tommy’s gaze hardens just a fraction. “Then there’s that picture,” he says, pulling a folded printout from inside his jacket and sliding it across the table. It’s the selfie she sent him, the one with both surviving Lejeune brothers. “Care to explain why you’re smiling with two guys you’ve been hinting to me are suspects?”

Lila doesn’t flinch, but her grip on the coffee cup tightens.

“Are you working with them now?” Tommy asks, his tone walking the line between accusation and disbelief. “Because from where I’m sitting, it’s starting to look like you’re not hunting them.
You’re protecting them.”

Lila leans back just enough to smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought you weren’t the jealous type?”

Tommy’s jaw tightens, his fingers drumming against the table. “This isn’t about jealousy, Lila. This is about you getting cozy with people I have every reason to believe are dangerous. If you’re working with them, you’re in over your head.”

His voice edges sharper, drawing the attention of a few nearby diners. Lila notices movement in her periphery; two men at the counter glance over, eyes narrowing, the subtle twitch in their features betraying the start of a woge. Another woman in the corner stiffens, her nostrils flaring faintly.

The air shifts, thick with unspoken threat. Lila forces her gaze down, keeping her expression neutral, her hands steady around the coffee cup. The last thing she can afford right now is locking eyes with anyone and having them see the truth in her.

Tommy doesn’t notice, his focus fixed on her. “If you know something, now’s the time to talk. Because if those brothers are what I think they are, they’ll drag you down with them.”

Lila tilts her head slightly, lowering her voice just enough to pull his focus back to her. “You’re working the case, Tommy. So am I. And if someone’s framing me and the brothers, it’s only a matter of time before they pick their next target—maybe someone you actually trust.”

He stares at her, but she doesn’t blink. “The brothers are innocent,” she says, each word deliberate. “And I never harmed any of those women.” Her tone sharpens just enough to cut through the static of the diner. “So if you’ve got evidence that says otherwise, put it on the table. I want to see it for myself.”

Tommy’s eyes narrow, weighing her words. After a long moment, he leans back in the booth and exhales through his nose. “Not here. Too many eyes, too many ears.” His gaze flicks around the diner, and for a second, Lila swears he notices the subtle woge tension in the room.

“I’ll show you what I’ve got,” he says finally, his tone firm. “But not in public. Somewhere private. And if you’re set on keeping those brothers in the loop, fine—they can be there too. But you’re all gonna hear the same thing at the same time.”

Lila arches a brow but doesn’t argue.

“Tonight,” Tommy adds, pushing back from the booth. “You pick the place. Somewhere nobody’s gonna walk in by accident.”

She nods once. “There’s a library with private rental rooms down the street. Meet me there at five sharp.”

Tommy studies her for a moment, then slides a couple of bills under his coffee cup for the waitress. “I’m sorry for how this all went down,” he says quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Before she can answer, he leans in—close enough that his breath stirs the hair by her ear—and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. For a heartbeat, she swears he inhales, subtle but deliberate, like he’s taking in her scent.

By the time she’s processed it, he’s already straightening, giving her a final look before turning for the door. The bell above it jingles, and then he’s gone into the gray New Orleans afternoon.

She watches through the diner’s front window until Tommy disappears into the afternoon crowd. Then she pulls out her other phone and fires off a quick text to both brothers: I’m walking out. Five o’clock. Library.

The burner she used to call Tommy sits on the table, screen dark. She stares at it for a moment before sliding it toward the edge, leaving it behind beside her empty coffee cup. No sense carrying something that could be traced.

Lila stands, tugs her jacket tight, and steps out into the damp New Orleans air already scanning the street for Ray and Beau.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Her boots hit the sidewalk and the damp air closes around her. She’s two doors down from the diner when her main phone buzzes in her pocket. Unknown number—but she knows the cadence. She answers on the first ring.

“Yeah?”

Marie’s voice is smoke and steel. “Can’t talk long, cher. I’m on an important visit.” A beat of road noise on the other end. “Got your files. You stirred a nest.”

Relief loosens something in Lila’s chest she didn’t know she was holding. “Figured as much.”

Marie doesn't say where she is—she never does. But Lila already knows. Portland. She'd known Marie would go there eventually, drawn by blood and duty to test her nephew Nick, to see if the Grimm sight had awakened in him. Marie speaks in careful, coded words anyway, old habits from decades of hunting: family business , checking in , possibilities to explore .

Lila listens to the subtext beneath Marie's measured tone. Time is running thin—the cancer eating away at Marie from the inside while Wesen circle like vultures, sensing weakness. If Nick proves to be a Grimm, he'll inherit the family trailer with its arsenal of weapons, ancient books, and centuries of accumulated knowledge. The legacy will pass to him, as it should.

But if he isn't—if the sight skipped him—then everything falls to Lila. The trailer, the responsibility, the weight of generations. More than her small trunk of weapons could ever hold. More than she's sure she's ready for, but ready or not, the Grimm line can't end with Marie.

“I know.” Lila glances back toward the diner door, reflexively checking the street. “Meeting him at five. Private spot. I’ll have company.”

“Don’t say names over the line,” Marie says, voice going flint-hard. “I don’t care who’s standing beside you. Wesen don’t change. If you’re sleeping under claws, you sleep with a knife in your hand. If they offer ‘protection,’ it’s a leash.”

Lila bites back anything that sounds like an explanation. “Understood.”

“Don’t bring me ‘innocent.’ Bring me proof. Times. Faces. Wounds. Until then—guilty. All of them.” A pause, the hiss of passing traffic. “Keep your eyes down. Change your scent. Burn that phone. Three exits at all times.” A softer beat. “And, Lila? Don’t let your heart pick the target.”

Another breath, a ragged kind of blessing. “You’re doing fine. Call when you’re clear.”

The line clicks dead. Lila stands for a second with the dial tone in her ear, then slides the phone away and pulls her jacket tight. Down the block, a figure leans casual in the shade of a cypress. Ray. Across the street, Beau’s reflection ghosts the café glass. Both waiting. Both watching.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

The thrift shop huddles just off the corner, its hand-painted sign weathered but cheerful, a brass bell announcing each customer with a cheerful chime. Inside, racks crowd together like old friends—denim and soft cotton, vintage blazers and forgotten sweaters—while the air carries the familiar scent of cedar sachets, faded perfume, and the damp wood smell that clings to New Orleans buildings after rain.

Lila steps through the door first, her eyes sweeping the cramped space with practiced casualness. To anyone watching, she's just another customer browsing, fingers trailing along hangers as she moves deeper into the store. But she's cataloging—exit routes, blind spots, the weight and structure of clothing that could hide weapons or provide cover.

Ray follows a beat behind, sliding in with the easy confidence of someone who belongs. He gives the elderly clerk behind the counter a casual two-finger salute, the kind of greeting that suggests he's been here before, just another local making the rounds. The woman nods back with a smile, already turning her attention to the romance novel splayed open beside her register.

Through the front window, Beau cuts a tall silhouette against the gray afternoon. He's positioned himself under the shop's narrow eave, arms folded across his chest, head turning in slow sweeps as he watches the street. To passersby, he might look like someone waiting for a friend to finish shopping. But Lila knows better—he's their early warning system, eyes tracking every face, every car, every shadow that doesn't belong.

Lila heads straight for the practical: dark jeans with stretch, a men’s-cut button-down she can move in, a short black jacket with deep pockets and a lining that won’t print a weapon. She tests each piece by habit—bend, reach, twist—making sure the fabric won’t fight her when the night does.

Ray leans an elbow on a rack, eyes amused. “You know this ain’t the army surplus, cher. Folks try on clothes here before they buy ’em.”

She slides him a look, dry as bone. “Some of us plan for contingencies.” She lifts the jacket hem, checks the internal seams. “This one’ll hide a compact at the ribs. Maybe a blade if I stitch a pocket.”

“Hot,” Ray says, low and lazy. “Nothing like a woman who accessorizes with felonies.”

She tosses him a pair of jeans. “Hold these before I use the hanger on you.”

He catches them, grin crooked. “You want my opinion on sizes, I’ll need a few… data points.”

She cocks a brow. “You looking at my ass or the stitching?”

“Multitasking,” he says, unabashed.

The clerk—a soft‑voiced woman with ivy tattooed up her wrist—drifts over. "Dressing rooms in back, baby. You need a belt?" 

"Belt and a plain black tee," Lila says. "Women's medium. Boots in back? Six."

"Six and a half," Ray corrects smoothly, not looking up from examining a vintage leather jacket. "She's got delicate feet."

Lila shoots him a look that could strip paint. "How would you—"

"Observation skills," he says, tapping his temple. "Plus you favor your left ankle when you walk. Old injury or tight shoes. I'm betting tight shoes." His grin turns wolfish. "I notice things."

The clerk beams at them like they're dinner theater. "Oh, how sweet. Couples shopping is my favorite. Let me grab those boots—we got some real cute ankle boots came in yesterday, perfect for someone with your... build."

She bustles off, and Ray leans closer to Lila, voice dropping to that honey-gravel register that does things to her pulse she refuses to acknowledge. "So what's the story on that ankle? Bar fight? Rooftop chase? Please tell me it involves you in leather pants."

"Hiking accident," Lila deadpans, gathering her selections. "Very boring. Very disappointing for your fantasy life."

"Nah, cher. I got imagination enough to work with hiking." His eyes track the way she moves between the racks, predatory appreciation barely disguised as casual interest. "Bet you looked real good all windswept and sweaty, limping back to civilization."

"You're a sick man, Lejeune."

"And you're blushing."

She is, damn him. Heat creeping up her neck despite every effort to stay professional. "I don't blush."

"You're doing something. Call it what you want." Ray plucks a scarf from a nearby display, silk the color of burnt amber. "This'd look good on you. Bring out your eyes."

"My eyes are green."

"Forest green. Like sea glass in sunlight." He holds the scarf up near her face, studying the effect. "Yeah. Definitely your color."

The clerk returns with boots and a knowing smile. "Those are beautiful together," she says, meaning the scarf but looking between them with matchmaker's eyes. "Real natural chemistry."

Ray grins. "We're still figuring that out."

"Speak for yourself," Lila mutters, but she doesn't step away when he drapes the scarf loosely around her neck, his knuckles brushing her collarbone as he adjusts it.

"There," he says softly, fingers lingering at the hollow of her throat. "Perfect."

For a heartbeat, the thrift shop fades around them. There's only Ray's hands warm against her skin, the scent of his cologne mixed with something wilder, more dangerous. His thumb traces the edge of the silk, and she feels her breath catch.

Then reality crashes back. She's here to buy clothes for a meeting that might get them all killed, flirting with a man she's supposed to be investigating, while his brother watches for threats outside.

She steps back, breaking the spell. "I'll take the boots," she tells the clerk, voice carefully level. "Hold the scarf."

Ray's smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in his eyes—disappointment, maybe, or challenge accepted. "Your loss, cher. But I'll keep it in mind for next time."

"Who says there's gonna be a next time?"

"Me," he says simply. "I'm real good at getting what I want."

"And what's that?"

His gaze drops to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Still figuring that out too."

The words hang between them, loaded with promise and threat in equal measure. Lila's hands curl into fists at her sides, three different impulses warring in her chest like caged animals.

Part of her—the part that's been alone too long, that's tired of watching everyone else from the shadows—wants to lean into his warmth, let his clever hands map the scars Marie's training left behind. Wants to see if that crooked smile tastes as dangerous as it looks.

Another part wants to punch him in his smug, beautiful face just to wipe away that knowing look, to prove she's not some lovesick mark falling for his Cajun charm and bedroom eyes. Her knuckles itch with it, the urge to show him exactly how delicate she isn't.

But underneath both impulses, deeper and colder, her Grimm heritage stirs like a sleeping serpent. Wesen . The word pulses in her blood with each heartbeat. Dangerous. Unnatural. Kill it before it kills you. Marie's voice echoes in her memory: Don't let your heart pick the target. 

Everything she's ever been taught screams that this moment—this want, this softness toward a creature that could tear her throat out with its bare hands—is exactly how Grimms die. Distracted. Compromised. Human.

Ray studies her face, and she wonders if he can see the war playing out behind her eyes. "You look like you're deciding whether to kiss me or kill me, cher."

"Maybe both," she admits, voice rougher than she intended.

His laugh is low, genuinely delighted. "Well now, that's the most honest thing you've said to me yet."

The clerk clears her throat diplomatically. "Dressing room's free whenever you're ready, baby."

Lila blinks, the spell breaking. Right. Clothes. Mission. Focus. She snatches the boots and heads toward the back of the store, needing distance from Ray's gravitational pull before she does something spectacularly stupid.

"Don't go anywhere," she calls over her shoulder, proud that her voice sounds almost normal.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Ray replies, and she can hear the smile in it. "I'll be right here when you come out."

That's what she's afraid of.

Chapter Text

The motel bathroom is a cramped square of chipped tile and fluorescent buzz, barely wide enough for Lila to turn around without her elbows hitting the walls. She stands before the mirror, hands braced on the sink's edge, staring at her own reflection like it might offer answers she doesn't have.

The new clothes fit well—dark jeans that won't restrict her movement, the black button-down loose enough to hide the compact pistol at her ribs. She's already strapped her knives in place: one at her ankle, another at the small of her back, a third tucked into the reinforced pocket she quickly stitched into the jacket's lining while the brothers weren't looking.

Through the thin bathroom door, she can hear them talking—Ray's voice a low rumble, Beau's responses clipped and tense. They think she can't hear them, probably assume the running water from her earlier shower and the bathroom fan would mask their conversation. They're wrong. Growing up with Marie taught her to listen through walls, to catch whispers meant to stay hidden.

"—can't keep pretending we don't know," Ray is saying, his usual lazy drawl edged with something harder. "The timeline fits. She shows up, Cal dies. She's got the skills, the weapons—"

"We don't know anything for sure," Beau cuts him off, but there's doubt in his voice now, the kind that eats at certainty like acid.

Lila's stomach clenches. Her fingers fumble with the last button, and she has to force herself to breathe slowly, quietly. They're piecing it together. Of course they are—they're not stupid, and she's not as good a liar as she thought.

"Come on, Beau. You marked her last night. You had to smell it on her—the guilt, the fear. Hell, probably Cal's blood if it's still under her nails." Ray's voice drops even lower, but not low enough. "She killed our brother."

Lila grips the sink harder, knuckles going white. There it is. Out loud. The accusation she's been dreading since the moment she pulled that trigger in the alley.

She closes her eyes, and for a second she's back there—rain slicking the pavement, Cal's golden eyes blazing as he lunged for her throat, the gun bucking in her hands. The way he looked at her as he bled out against the brick wall, confusion and rage warring in his face. The way she'd stood over his body afterward, shaking, wondering if she'd just killed an innocent man.

"Even if she did," Beau says, and his voice is carefully controlled now, the kind of calm that comes before violence, "we don't know why. Maybe Cal—"

"Cal never hurt those women." Ray's interruption is sharp, final. "You know it. I know it. She hunted down our brother based on lies and put him in the ground like a rabid dog."

Lila's breathing hitches, and she covers her mouth with one hand to muffle the sound. The guilt she's been carrying since that night crashes over her like a wave—not just for killing Cal, but for the growing certainty that Ray is right. Cal was innocent. All her research, all her careful tracking, all those case files that pointed to the Lejeune brothers... someone had fed her exactly what she needed to see to pull that trigger.

She'd been played. Used. Turned into someone else's weapon.

"So what do we do?" Beau asks, and there's pain in his voice now, raw and unfiltered. "She's marked with my scent. She's under our protection. And in a few hours, we're walking into a room where that cop might have evidence that proves she murdered Cal."

"We could walk away," Ray says, but he doesn't sound convinced. "Let her face Tommy alone. Let the law handle it."

"And if the law doesn't? If she walks free because she's a Grimm and we're just monsters?" Beau's voice turns bitter. "How many more of us die while she hunts shadows?"

Lila's heart pounds so hard she's sure they must hear it through the door. This is it. This is the moment her fragile alliance with the brothers shatters. In a few minutes, she'll have to walk out of this bathroom and pretend she didn't hear them planning her fate.

But which fate? Are they going to turn her over to Tommy? Take justice into their own hands? Or are they debating something else entirely—something that might be worse than either option?

She straightens, checking her reflection one more time. Her face is pale but steady, green eyes hard as glass. Whatever comes next, she won't go down easy. She's Delilah Boudreaux. She's survived worse than two angry Wesen brothers.

The conversation stops the instant she emerges. Both brothers look up from where they're sitting—Ray sprawled across one bed like he owns it, Beau perched on the edge of the other, shoulders tense. The silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken accusations and the weight of what she's just overheard.

Ray recovers first, that lazy grin sliding back into place like a mask. "Well, well. Don't you clean up nice, cher." His eyes track over her new clothes with obvious appreciation. "That shirt's doing things for you that should probably be illegal in at least three states."

The flirtation feels hollow now, performative. Lila sees it for what it is—a deflection, a way to avoid the conversation they were just having about her guilt, about Cal's blood on her hands. Ray's playing his part, the charming rogue who can't keep his eyes or his comments to himself, but there's something brittle underneath it now.

Beau doesn't say anything at all. He just watches her with those dark eyes, jaw set, like he's memorizing her face for some future reckoning. The silence from him is worse than Ray's hollow charm. It's judgment, pure and simple.

"Thanks," she says to Ray, voice steady despite the knot in her throat. She moves to her Grimm trunk, checking her weapons one more time even though she knows they're all there. Anything to avoid looking at Beau's accusing stare.

"Seriously though," Ray continues, swinging his legs off the bed to lean forward, elbows on his knees. "You got that whole dangerous-woman-with-secrets thing down to an art form. Very femme fatale. Very... what's the word... apocalyptic?"

"That's not a word normal people use to describe women, Ray."

"Normal's overrated." He stands, moving closer with that predatory grace all the Lejeune brothers share. "Besides, when have I ever been accused of being normal?"

Lila's chest tightens as she watches him approach. This easy banter, this flirtation—it's all going to end. Maybe today, maybe tonight, but soon. Because when the truth comes out completely, when there's no more dancing around what she did to Cal, this fragile thing between them will shatter. Ray will stop looking at her like she's something he wants and start looking at her like something he needs to destroy.

And Beau... Beau will probably be the one to pull the trigger.

The thought should terrify her. Instead, it just makes her tired. She's so sick of running, of lying, of pretending she's not exactly what Marie trained her to be—a killer of monsters. Even when those monsters smile at her and make her pulse race and mark her with their scent like she belongs to them.

Maybe especially then.

"You're awfully quiet, Beau," she says, glancing over at him. "No commentary on my fashion choices?"

He shrugs, still watching her with that unreadable expression. "You look ready for war."

The words land heavier than Ray's flirtation. More honest, too. Because that's exactly what she's dressed for—war. The question is whether it'll be with Tommy and whatever evidence he's carrying, or with the two men in this room who are slowly realizing she's the monster in their story.

Ray laughs, but it's forced. "Always so dramatic, my brother. She looks ready for dinner and maybe some light conversation. Don't you, cher?"

Lila meets his eyes, sees the challenge there, the desperate hope that she'll play along with the charade a little longer. Her heart breaks a little more, because she can see it now—the moment when she'll have to choose between her survival and theirs. And when that moment comes, she knows which choice Marie's training will make her take.

She's going to have to kill them. Both of them. And the worst part is, she's starting to care enough that it might actually hurt.

Chapter Text

The po'boy shop Ray leads them to is a hole-in-the-wall tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat, the kind of place that looks like it might give you food poisoning but probably serves the best sandwiches in the city. The neon sign flickers intermittently, casting pink and blue shadows across cracked sidewalk, and the smell of fried shrimp and fresh bread spills out every time someone opens the door.

Inside, mismatched tables crowd together under harsh fluorescent lights, and the walls are covered with faded Saints memorabilia and photos of customers who've clearly had too much to drink. It's loud, chaotic, and anonymous—exactly the kind of place where three people with secrets can disappear into the background noise.

Ray orders for all of them without asking, rattling off selections to the bored teenager behind the counter with the easy confidence of someone who's been coming here for years. "Three debris po'boys, extra gravy, side of jambalaya, and whatever beer you got that ain't Bud Light."

They claim a corner table, backs to the wall, exits in sight. Old habits. Lila picks at her sandwich, appetite dulled by nerves and the weight of everything unsaid. The food is incredible—tender roast beef swimming in rich gravy, fresh bread that practically dissolves on her tongue—but she can barely taste it.

The brothers eat with more enthusiasm, though she catches Beau glancing at the door every few minutes and Ray's usual stream of commentary is more subdued than normal. The silence stretches between them, filled only by the ambient noise of other diners and the hiss of the fryer in the kitchen.

Finally, Lila clears her throat, then immediately feels heat creep up her neck. She takes a sip of beer, trying to work up the courage to ask what's been nagging at her since she got dressed.

"I, um..." she starts, then stops, suddenly fascinated by the label on her bottle. "This is probably a stupid question, but—"

Ray's eyebrows shoot up, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Oh, this should be good. Grimm's about to ask something stupid. I'm all ears, cher."

Lila shoots him a look but presses on, her cheeks growing warmer. "The scent thing. The bunting. I showered and changed clothes, so..." She gestures vaguely at herself, avoiding their eyes. "Do I need to... I mean, is it still working? For protection?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment. Then Ray's grin turns absolutely wicked.

"Well now," he drawls, leaning back in his chair and looking her up and down with obvious appreciation. "That's a very good question, sugar. Very practical. Very... thorough of you to think about."

Beau kicks him under the table, but even he's fighting a smile. "She's asking a legitimate question, Ray."

"Oh, I know exactly what she's asking." Ray's eyes dance with mischief. "And I'm more than happy to help with quality control. For her safety, of course."

Lila's face burns. "I wasn't—that's not what I meant—"

"Wasn't it?" Ray leans forward, voice dropping to that honey-rough register that does things to her pulse. "Because if you're asking whether my brother's scent is still all over that pretty skin of yours..." He trails off, letting his gaze linger meaningfully. "Well, that might require some very hands-on investigation."

Lila's hand moves to her ankle, fingers brushing the handle of her knife. "Keep talking like that and you'll find out exactly how hands-on I can get with sharp objects."

Ray's grin only widens. "Promises, promises. You know I like a woman who plays rough."

"Ray." Beau's voice carries a warning, though there's amusement in his dark eyes. "Behave yourself. The lady asked a practical question."

"And I'm giving her a practical answer," Ray protests, holding up his hands in mock innocence. "Scent fades, especially after soap and water. If she wants to be sure she's protected..." He shrugs, the picture of helpfulness. "Well, I'm just saying we might need to refresh the marking. For safety reasons."

Lila narrows her eyes at him, but her pulse quickens at the suggestion. The rational part of her mind knows she should shut this down, maintain professional distance, keep her focus on the mission. But another part—the part that's tired of being alone, that's drawn to their dangerous charm despite every warning Marie ever gave her—whispers that maybe she wants this. Maybe she's earned one moment of connection before everything falls apart.

"You're impossible," she mutters, taking a long pull from her beer to hide the way her hands want to shake.

"Impossibly charming," Ray corrects. "Impossibly handsome. Impossibly modest."

Beau reaches over and cuffs his brother on the back of the head. "Impossibly irritating." But his tone is fond, and when he looks at Lila, there's something softer in his expression. "He's not wrong about the scent, though. It does fade. And if you're walking into that library meeting..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. They all know what's waiting for them in a few hours. Evidence. Accusations. Possibly arrest warrants. If the local Wesen community is the only thing standing between her and a lynch mob, she needs every advantage she can get.

"So what are you suggesting?" she asks, proud that her voice stays steady.

Ray's eyes light up like Christmas morning. "Well, cher, that depends on how thorough you want to be about it."

Lila pauses, her beer halfway to her lips, a more serious thought cutting through the sexual tension. "Wait. How many local Wesen are we actually talking about here? And are any of them on the police force?"

The brothers exchange a look—something quick and communicative that she almost misses.

"Police are all human," Beau says carefully. "Every last one of them. NOPD doesn't exactly recruit from our community."

"But the locals..." Ray's grin turns more genuine, less predatory. "Well, let's just say New Orleans has always been good to our kind. Especially our particular kind."

Lila frowns, processing that. "Your particular kind? You mean Balam?"

"Family," Beau corrects, and there's pride in his voice. "Most of the Wesen in this part of the city are clan. Cousins, second cousins, family friends who might as well be blood." His expression grows more serious. "We take care of our own. Especially now, with Cal..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but Lila hears the weight of it. Since Cal's murder. Since someone killed one of theirs.

Ray catches her confused look and nods toward the counter, where the bored teenager is wiping down surfaces. "Hey, Marcus!"

The kid looks up, and for just a second—barely a flash—his features shift. The subtle elongation of jaw, the brief gleam of golden eyes, before he grins and waves back. "Y'all need anything else?"

"Nah, we're good, cousin," Ray calls back, then turns to Lila with raised eyebrows. "Marcus there? That's our second cousin on our mama's side. His daddy runs the auto shop two blocks over. His sister works at the grocery store where we buy our beer."

Lila's blood goes cold as the implications sink in. She looks around the restaurant with new eyes, noting the way other diners have been glancing their way, how the waitress lingered a little too long when she refilled their drinks, the subtle attention they've been getting since they walked in.

"Jesus," she breathes. "How many of you are there?"

"Enough," Beau says simply. "And right now, every single one of them is watching out for whoever killed Cal. Which means..." He meets her eyes, his expression unreadable. "If you're marked as ours, if you smell like family, they'll protect you like family. Even from the police."

The weight of that settles over her. She's not just wearing Beau's scent—she's wearing protection from an entire clan of predators. Predators who would tear apart anyone who threatened their own.

Predators who would also tear her apart if they knew what she really did to Cal.

"So," Ray says, his voice softer now, more serious despite the heat still burning in his eyes. "The question isn't whether you need the protection, cher. The question is whether you trust us enough to take it."

Lila stares at him, then at Beau, her mind racing. Does she trust them? Or is she just calculating the advantage, weighing the benefits of having an entire clan of predators watching her back against the risk of getting closer to men she might have to kill?

The honest answer scares her. She doesn't know anymore. The line between wanting their protection and wanting them has blurred beyond recognition.

She glances at her watch—almost one o'clock. Four hours until the library meeting. Four hours until Tommy lays whatever evidence he has on the table and forces all their cards into the open.

"Fine," she says, pushing back from the table with more force than necessary. "Let's go."

Ray's eyebrows shoot up. "That's it? Just 'fine, let's go'? No negotiation? No threats involving sharp objects?"

"Don't push it," she warns, but there's no real heat in it. She's already made her choice, for better or worse. "We've got a few hours. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

Beau drops money on the table, his movements careful and controlled. "You sure about this?"

She meets his eyes, seeing the concern there alongside the want. "No. But I'm sure about needing every advantage I can get tonight."

It's not the whole truth, but it's not a lie either. That'll have to be enough.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Back in the motel room, the air feels different—charged with possibility and unspoken promises. Lila sets her jacket on the dresser, hyperaware of every movement, every breath. The afternoon light filters through the thin curtains, casting everything in muted gold.

Ray sprawls across one of the beds, watching her with those dark eyes that seem to see too much. "You know, cher, you've been threatening to stab me all day, but I'm starting to think that's just your way of flirting."

"Maybe it is," she says, surprising herself with the admission.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Well now, that's interesting. Should I be worried or excited?"

"Both," Lila says, and finds she means it.

Beau leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. "My brother's incorrigible," he says to Lila. "Fair warning."

"I noticed." She moves closer to Ray, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "The question is, what am I going to do about it?"

Ray's grin turns wicked. "I got a few suggestions."

"I bet you do." Without warning, she reaches out and grabs his shirt, raising him up from the bed slightly until they're nose to nose. For a moment, they just stare at each other, the air between them electric.

"You talk too much," she murmurs.

"Then shut me up," Ray challenges, his voice rough.

So she does. Her lips crash against his, all teeth and hunger and pent-up frustration. He tastes like beer and something darker, more dangerous. His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, and she goes willingly, letting herself fall into the heat of him.

When they break apart, both breathing hard, Ray's grin has been replaced by something rawer, more honest.

"Well," he says, voice hoarse. "That's one way to do it."

Beau pushes off from the wall, moving toward the door. "I'll leave you two to—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than Lila intended, surprising all three of them. Beau freezes, hand on the doorknob, while Ray's eyebrows shoot up.

Heat floods her cheeks, but she forces herself to continue. "I mean... wouldn't it be better if I had both your scents? For protection?"

The question hangs in the air. She can't believe she just said that, can't believe she's asking for what she's asking for. But the truth is, she doesn't want Beau to leave. Doesn't want to choose between them.

Ray's eyes darken with understanding, and something that might be approval. "She's got a point, brother. Stronger scent, better protection."

Beau turns slowly, his gaze searching Lila's face. "You sure about that?"

She nods, not trusting her voice. Beau studies her for another moment, then moves closer, each step deliberate. When he reaches them, he cups her face gently, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.

"Alright then," he murmurs, and leans down to kiss her.

Where Ray's kiss was fire and hunger, Beau's is deeper, more controlled, but no less intense. His lips are soft against hers, his touch reverent, like she's something precious he's afraid to break. When he pulls back, his eyes are gold at the edges, the beast stirring just beneath the surface.

"This is going to be different from last night," Beau says quietly, his voice already rougher. "More intense. We both have to woge for it to work properly."

Lila nods, her pulse quickening. She's seen them shifted before, but not like this. Not in intimacy.

Ray moves behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. "You sure you can handle two Balam at once, cher?"

"Only one way to find out," she breathes.

The change comes over them gradually. Ray shifts first, his features elongating, golden eyes brightening as his hands grow larger, stronger. She feels the press of his face against her neck, nuzzling, the warm rasp of his tongue against her pulse point. It's primal, animalistic, but strangely tender.

Beau's transformation follows, and she watches his beautiful face become something wilder, more dangerous. When he leans in to brush his cheek against hers, she feels the soft fur against her skin, catches the deep, musky scent that's purely Balam.

They move around her like dancers, taking turns pressing close, rubbing their scent into her hair, her skin, the hollow of her throat. Ray's large hands span her waist as he nuzzles behind her ear, while Beau trails his face along her collarbone, marking her with each gentle touch.

Then Ray shifts back to human form, spinning her around to capture her lips in a heated kiss that leaves her gasping. His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer as his tongue traces the seam of her lips.

"Still with us?" he murmurs against her mouth.

"More than with you," she manages, surprised by how breathless she sounds.

Beau, still partially shifted, presses against her back, his arms coming around both of them. She's surrounded by their heat, their scent, their want.

She turns in their embrace, kissing Beau deeply, tasting the wildness on his lips before he shifts back to human form. His hands frame her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as he pulls back to look at her.

"You're sure?" he asks, voice rough with desire and concern.

Instead of answering with words, Lila reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one smooth motion. The afternoon light catches on her pale skin, highlighting old scars and new bruises, the evidence of a life lived dangerously.

Ray's breath hitches. "Christ, cher. You're beautiful."

Her hands move to her jeans, fingers working the button with deliberate slowness. Both brothers watch, transfixed, as she bares herself to them piece by piece. There's power in it—in being wanted, in choosing this moment, this connection, before everything potentially falls apart.

When she's finally naked before them, she feels no shame, only hunger. "Your turn," she says, voice husky with need.

They shed their clothes with less ceremony but no less heat, and then they're all skin and want and whispered promises. Ray's hands map the curves of her body while Beau's mouth finds the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. She arches between them, lost in sensation, in the feeling of being claimed and cherished all at once.

They move together to the bed, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. Ray takes his time exploring her with hands and mouth, finding spots that make her gasp and arch beneath him. Beau is more reverent, his touch worshipful, like he's memorizing every inch of her.

"Please," she breathes, and they both know what she's asking for.

What follows is intense, overwhelming, perfect. Ray takes her first, his usual cocky grin softening into something reverent as he maps her body with hands and mouth. He finds the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp, the curve of her hip that fits perfectly in his palm. When he finally sinks into her, it's with a groan that sounds like prayer.

"Christ, cher," he breathes against her throat, voice rough with wonder. "You feel incredible."

He moves with surprising gentleness at first, mindful of her healing thigh, but when she urges him deeper with her legs around his waist, he gives her what she's asking for. The rhythm builds between them, skin slick with sweat, the cheap motel bed creaking beneath them. She bites his shoulder when the pleasure crests, and he shudders against her with a broken sound.

Beau watches it all with dark, hungry eyes, and when Ray finally pulls away with a satisfied grin, Beau takes his place with quiet intensity. Where Ray was playful fire, Beau is controlled burn—deeper, more deliberate, drawing responses from her she didn't know she was capable of.

"Look at me," he murmurs when her eyes flutter closed, his thumb stroking her cheek. When she meets his gaze, golden at the edges with his barely contained shift, he moves in her with purpose that steals her breath.

They work in perfect synchrony, these brothers who know each other's rhythms as well as their own. Ray's mouth finds hers in hungry kisses while Beau drives her higher, hands and lips everywhere until she can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

When she finally falls apart in their arms, it's with their names on her lips and their scent deep in her skin. They hold her as she trembles, whispering soft words in languages she doesn't understand but somehow feels in her bones.

Afterward, they don't separate. Ray curls around her back while Beau gathers her against his chest, and for the first time in years, Lila feels truly safe. Protected not just by their strength, but by something deeper.

"Sleep, cher," Ray murmurs against her hair. "We've got you."

And for now, that's enough.

Chapter Text

The alarm on Lila's phone cuts through the drowsy warmth of the motel room at exactly four-thirty. She's wrapped between the Lejeune brothers, Ray's arm slung across her waist, Beau's chest warm against her back. For a moment, she lets herself savor it—the safety, the connection, the way their scents have mingled on her skin.

Then reality crashes back. Tommy. The library. Whatever evidence he's carrying that could destroy them all.

"Time to go," she murmurs, carefully extracting herself from their embrace.

Ray groans, pulling a pillow over his head. "Five more minutes, cher. World can wait."

"The world doesn't care what we want," Lila says, already reaching for her clothes. Her body aches in all the right places, reminders of the afternoon written across her skin in small marks and tender spots.

Beau sits up, immediately alert in that way that speaks to years of living dangerously. "You nervous?"

She considers lying, then decides against it. "Terrified. You?"

"Same." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, muscles shifting under skin marked with scratches from her nails. "But we'll handle whatever Tommy's got."

Ray finally emerges from under the pillow, hair sticking up at odd angles. "Your charm's what got us into this mess," Beau points out, pulling on his jeans.

"Your charm got us a very enjoyable afternoon," Ray corrects with a grin that's pure satisfaction. "Different thing entirely."

Lila smiles despite herself, pulling on her shirt. Ray's ability to find lightness even in the darkest moments is one of the things that draws her to him. But underneath the warmth, dread coils in her stomach like a living thing.

What if Tommy really does have evidence placing her at the scene of Cal's murder? Security footage, witness statements, forensics that tie her to that alley? She's been careful, but careful doesn't mean invisible. There are always traces left behind, always someone who might have seen something.

Or worse—what if this is just another dead end, another false lead in a case that seems designed to destroy everyone it touches? The brothers would have to sit there and listen to themselves being accused of attacking the very women Lila came here to get justice for. Women whose faces she's memorized, whose statements she's read until the words burned into her brain.

She buttons her jeans with steady hands, but her mind races. Either way, someone's going to walk out of that library meeting destroyed. The question is whether it'll be her, them, or all of them together.

"You okay, cher?" Ray asks, catching the tension in her shoulders.

"Just thinking," she says, checking her weapons out of habit. Knife at her ankle, gun at her ribs, backup blade in her jacket. "About what comes next."

The words sit on her tongue like poison: I killed your brother. She could say it right now, come clean, explain that she didn't have a choice. That Cal had woged, that he'd lunged for her throat, that it was him or her in that rain-soaked alley. Self-defense, pure and simple.

But even as she opens her mouth to confess, the memory of the Grimm book stops her cold. The careful, warning notes scrawled in the margins by hunters who'd barely survived their encounters: Obsessive when family is threatened. Known to stalk and hunt their enemies for days, never backing down. If you fight two Balam together, strike first, strike fast, and do not hesitate. If one falls, the other will fly into a rage.

She closes her mouth, the confession dying unspoken. These men who just held her, who marked her with their scent, who made her feel safe for the first time in years—they would tear her apart the moment they knew the truth. Blood calls to blood among the Balam, and she's the one who spilled it.

No matter how gentle Beau's hands had been, no matter how Ray's laughter had chased away her loneliness, she's still the monster in their story. And monsters don't get mercy from grieving family.

"What's got you so quiet?" Beau asks, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Just nerves," she lies, hating how easily the deception comes. "Big night ahead."

Ray tugs on his boots, shaking his head. "Look, whatever information Tommy's got, we know it's gonna be bullshit. Has to be. We didn't hurt those women." His voice hardens. "Question is, who the fuck keeps feeding everyone these lies, and why they want us gone so bad."

He stands, rolling his shoulders. "That's assuming your boy Tommy isn't the one screwing us over in the first place."

Beau's eyes find Lila's in the mirror as he combs his hair. "Can we trust him? Really trust him?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. Lila thinks about Tommy's hands on her skin, his easy smile, the way he'd kissed her cheek at the diner while subtly scenting her. She thinks about the raid on her motel room, the evidence that appeared out of nowhere, the way he'd shown up at exactly the right moment to arrest her.

"I don't know," she admits, the honesty bitter on her tongue. "I thought I could. But after everything that's happened..." She shrugs, checking her gun one more time. "I don't know if I can trust anyone anymore."

"You can trust us," Ray says quietly, and the certainty in his voice makes her chest tighten.

No, she thinks. I really can't. But she nods anyway, adding another lie to the growing pile between them.

Her phone buzzes with an email notification. Lila glances at the screen and feels her blood chill when she sees Marie's name.

"Give me a second," she says, stepping toward the window for better light. The brothers continue getting ready, but she can feel their attention on her as she opens the message.

Reviewed all your files. Officer Dale is dirty - too many inconsistencies, access to cases outside his jurisdiction, evidence appearing too conveniently. My gut says he's more than just corrupt. Stay away from him. Do NOT meet with him alone. Something's very wrong here. - M

Lila stares at the words, her hands suddenly shaking. Marie's instincts are legendary—she's survived forty years of hunting because she can smell trouble before it strikes. If she's this worried about Tommy...

"Bad news?" Beau asks, catching the change in her expression.

Lila looks up at them—these men she's just been intimate with, who've marked her as theirs, who would kill her if they knew the truth about Cal. And now Marie is telling her that Tommy, the one person she thought might be an ally, could be the real enemy.

"Just a message from a C.I. on another case I'm working," she says, slipping the phone back into her pocket. "Follow-up stuff. Nothing to worry about."

But her mind races as she processes Marie's warning. Tommy is dirty—more than just corrupt, dangerous. And they're about to walk into a meeting with him, alone, in a private room where anything could happen.

Ray finishes with his boots, studying her face. "You sure? You look like someone just walked over your grave."

"I'm fine," Lila lies, checking her weapons one more time. The weight of her gun feels heavier now, more necessary. "Just ready to get this over with."

The room falls silent except for the distant hum of traffic. Whatever's waiting for them at that library, it's not going to be what any of them expect.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

The New Orleans Public Library squats on the corner like a fortress of red brick and tall windows, its steps worn smooth by decades of foot traffic. Evening shadows stretch across the sidewalk as Lila and Beau approach the main entrance, while Ray melts into the darkness between two parked cars half a block away.

Inside, the library is quiet except for the soft shuffle of pages and the occasional whisper. Lila reserves a small study room on the second floor—private enough for sensitive conversation, public enough that screaming would be heard. She hopes it won't come to that.

They claim chairs facing the door, Beau's presence solid and reassuring at her side. His hand rests casually on the table, close enough to hers that she can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. To anyone watching, they look like a couple studying together.

"You nervous?" Beau asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm fine," Lila says, checking her watch. Five minutes until five. "You?"

"Getting there." He glances toward the window, where Ray's shadow should be lurking somewhere in the gathering dusk. "But we've got backup if things go sideways."

Lila nods, though her stomach churns with the knowledge that if this goes wrong, backup might not be enough. Not if Tommy really is as dangerous as Marie believes.

At exactly five o'clock, Tommy appears in the doorway. He's dressed in civilian clothes—jeans and a button-down shirt—but there's something different about his posture, more rigid than she remembers. He gives Lila a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, then his expression hardens when he notices Beau.

"Didn't expect company," Tommy says, his tone neutral but cool.

"He stays," Lila replies simply.

Tommy shrugs, settling into the chair across from them. He sets a thick folder on the table between them, his movements deliberate. "Alright. Let's cut to the chase."

He opens the folder and slides the first set of papers directly to Lila, pointedly ignoring Beau. "This is what we've got on you now. Multiple witnesses placing you near the scenes of the attacks. Physical evidence. A pattern of behavior."

Lila scans the documents, her blood growing colder with each line. The paperwork shows her as the prime suspect in attacking the women—not the brothers, but her. The same cases she'd been investigating, the same victims she'd been trying to get justice for, but now she's painted as the predator.

"This is bullshit," she says flatly. "These reports originally had the Lejeune brothers as suspects. I've seen the files."

Tommy's smile turns sharp. "Evidence evolves. New information comes to light."

Something in his tone makes her skin crawl. This isn't the same man who'd held her in his bed, who'd kissed her cheek at the diner. This Tommy is colder, more calculating.

"What kind of new information?" Beau asks quietly, his voice carrying a warning.

Tommy's eyes shift to Beau, and his smile turns predatory. "I'm glad you asked." He reaches into the folder and pulls out a second set of documents, sliding them across the table to Beau. "Security camera footage from the night your brother Cal was murdered. Ballistics report matching the bullets pulled from his body. Witness statement from someone who saw her leaving the alley."

Lila's heart stops. She watches Beau's face as he reads, sees the exact moment comprehension dawns. His jaw tightens, his hands go still, and when he looks up at her, his eyes are no longer warm.

"Is this true?" Beau's voice is barely controlled, each word measured and dangerous.

Lila opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. The moment she's been dreading since that night in the rain has finally arrived, and she's frozen like a deer in headlights.

Tommy leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying the show. "The ballistics don't lie, Boudreaux. Neither does the footage. You put three bullets in Cal Lejeune, and now his family deserves to know who really killed him."

Beau's chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes back from the table, his breathing shallow. The scent of his barely controlled rage fills the small study room, and Lila knows she's about to see exactly what the Grimm book warned her about.

A Balam's fury when family blood is spilled.

Beau's face contorts as he woges, bone shifting, fangs extending, golden eyes blazing with murderous rage. The careful control he's maintained since learning the truth finally snaps, and Lila sees her death in his transformed features.

But then something impossible happens. Tommy's own face begins to shift—his jaw extending, teeth sharpening into fangs, red fur sprouting along his cheekbones and forehead. His eyes turn a fierce, predatory yellow.

"Blutbad," Lila breathes, recognizing the wolf-like woge even as her mind reels.

"Easy, Beau," Tommy says, his voice taking on an odd, hypnotic quality. "I know you want to tear her apart, but a Grimm belongs behind bars, not in pieces on the library floor. Let the law handle this."

His words seem to have a calming effect on Beau, whose rage wavers slightly. But Lila isn't waiting around to see if Tommy's influence will hold.

She lunges sideways, overturning the table between them as she draws her gun in one fluid motion. Papers scatter everywhere as she rolls behind an overturned chair, already calculating distances to the door.

"Ray!" she shouts, hoping her voice carries through the library's walls.

The study room erupts into chaos—Beau snarling as he tries to reach her, Tommy moving with inhuman speed to block the exit, and Lila fighting for her life against two woged Wesen who both want her dead, just for very different reasons.

And then it all clicks. The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity.

Tommy. A Blutbad with access to police files, crime scenes, evidence lockers. A predator who could hunt women and then manipulate the investigation afterward. He'd been playing everyone—framing the brothers first, then her, all while being the real monster they'd been hunting all along.

"Beau, listen to me!" she shouts over his snarls, backing toward the window. "It's him! Tommy's the one who killed those women! He's been setting us all up!"

But there's no reasoning with a woged Balam consumed by family vengeance. Beau lunges for her throat, claws extended, and Lila makes a split-second decision.

She fires two shots into the window behind her, shattering the glass, then launches herself backward through the opening. The drop to the sidewalk below is bone-jarring, but she rolls with the impact and comes up running.

Behind her, she hears Tommy's voice, still trying to control the situation: "Let her go, Beau. The whole building's heard the shots. We need to—"

But Lila doesn't stick around to hear the rest. She's already sprinting down the street, praying Ray is close enough to help, and that she can stay ahead of a Balam's fury long enough to prove the truth.

Chapter Text

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Lila mutters under her breath as she sprints through the darkening New Orleans streets, her boots pounding against cracked pavement. Her lungs burn and her thigh aches where the stitches pull with each stride, but she doesn't slow down.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she hisses, ducking down an alley to avoid the main thoroughfare. How could she have been so blind? All those nights with Tommy, all those conversations, all that trust—and he'd been the monster all along. A Blutbad with a badge, hunting women and then covering his tracks with police authority.

She vaults over a chain-link fence, landing hard on the other side. Pain shoots up her injured leg, but adrenaline keeps her moving. "Goddamn it, Lila, you're supposed to be better than this!"

Marie's voice echoes in her head: Don't let your heart pick the target. But she hadn't just let her heart pick—she'd let it blind her completely. She'd been so focused on the Lejeune brothers, so caught up in the hunt, that she'd missed the real predator stalking right beside her.

The motel comes into view three blocks ahead, its neon sign flickering pink and blue in the gathering dusk. She needs her Grimm trunk—her weapons, her research, her emergency cash. Everything she'll need to disappear before Beau and Ray track her down.

Because they will track her down. She killed their brother, and now they know it. The afternoon they'd shared, the intimacy, the scent marking—none of that will matter when Balam blood calls for vengeance.

"Fuck," she breathes again, pushing herself harder. She's got maybe ten minutes before they realize where she's headed. Ten minutes to grab her life and run.

Then it hits her like a physical blow. The scent marking. Beau's scent all over her skin, in her hair, soaked into every fiber of her clothing from their afternoon together. They don't need to track her—they can follow her like a goddamn beacon.

"Son of a bitch!" she snarls, skidding to a halt behind a dumpster. "You fucking idiot, Lila! You let them mark you! You stupid, stupid—"

Without hesitation, she starts ripping off her clothes. The jacket goes first, flung into a storm drain. Her shirt follows, tossed over a fence into someone's backyard. She's down to her bra and jeans when she realizes how insane this must look, but she doesn't care.

"Shit, shit, shit," she mutters, pulling off her boots and throwing them in opposite directions. The jeans go next, hurled into an alley three blocks from the motel. She's running in just her underwear now, using fire escapes and side streets, praying no one sees her.

Her skin still carries their scent—she can smell it herself, that musky Balam mark that seemed so protective hours ago and now feels like a death sentence. But at least the clothes that absorbed the worst of it are scattered across half the Quarter.

Maybe it'll buy her enough time. Maybe it'll confuse the trail just long enough for her to get her trunk and disappear.

"Please let this work," she whispers, sprinting the last block to the motel in nothing but her bra, panties, and the knife still strapped to her ankle. "Please, please, please."

She fumbles with the motel room key, her hands shaking so badly she can barely get it in the lock. Finally, the door swings open and she's inside, slamming it shut behind her and throwing the deadbolt.

Her Grimm trunk sits exactly where she left it, and she drops to her knees beside it, throwing it open with desperate hands. Clean clothes first—she yanks on a black t-shirt and cargo pants, not caring that they don't match. Her hands are steadier now that she has a plan, muscle memory taking over.

Knife goes into the boot sheath. She checks her backup pistol, loads a fresh magazine, chambers a round. The familiar weight of weapons centers her, makes her feel less like prey and more like the predator she was trained to be.

She's reaching for a pair of boots when the door opens behind her.

"Well, well," Ray's voice is deceptively casual, but there's something cold underneath it that makes her blood freeze. "Going somewhere, cher?"

She's reaching for a pair of boots when the door opens behind her.

"Well, well," Ray's voice is deceptively casual, but there's something cold underneath it that makes her blood freeze. "Going somewhere, cher?"

Lila spins around instantly, knife already in her hand, every muscle coiled for a fight. She faces him from beside her trunk, weapon ready, watching his every move with the sharp focus of a predator. Her training screams at her to never turn her back on a threat, and Ray—no matter what they shared this afternoon—is definitely a threat now.

"Ray," she says quietly, her voice steady even though her heart is hammering. "We need to talk."

Ray leans against the doorframe, that familiar lazy grin on his face, but his eyes are hard as flint. "Why is it when a woman says 'we need to talk,' it's always a breakup?" He chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Though I guess in our case, it's more like a funeral, ain't it, cher?"

The casual cruelty in his voice makes her chest tighten. This is the same man who'd held her just hours ago, who'd whispered sweet words against her skin, who'd made her feel safe for the first time in years. Now he's looking at her like she's something he scraped off his boot.

"Ray, please—"

"Please what?" He pushes off from the doorframe, taking a step into the room. "Please forgive you for murdering my brother? Please pretend like you didn't lie to my face while I was marking you with my scent?" His grin turns vicious. "Or maybe please don't tell the family that the woman they're protecting is the one who put Cal in the ground?"

Each word is a knife between her ribs. Lila keeps her weapon steady, but inside she's breaking apart. She doesn't want to hurt him. Doesn't want to fight him. But the way he's moving, the predatory gleam in his eyes—she knows she might not have a choice.

"You played us real good, didn't you, Grimm?" Ray continues, his voice dripping with mock admiration. "Sweet little lost lamb, just trying to get justice for those poor women. Had us eating right out of your hand."

His face begins to shift, jaw extending, fangs emerging as golden fur sprouts along his cheekbones. The familiar features she'd kissed just hours ago become something wild and dangerous, and she knows talking time is over.

Ray lunges with inhuman speed, claws extended. Lila throws herself sideways, rolling behind the bed as his claws rake the air where her throat had been. She comes up with her knife ready, deflecting his next swipe with the flat of the blade.

"Ray, listen to me!" she shouts, dancing back from another attack. "I believed you were innocent! I stayed to clear your names!"

He snarls, feinting left before striking right. She barely gets her knife up in time, the impact sending vibrations up her arm. "Bullshit!"

"It's not bullshit!" She ducks under a vicious swipe, using the bed as a barrier between them. "I trusted you enough to let you mark me! I slept with you! I trusted you with my life!"

"And the whole time you knew you'd killed Cal!" Ray vaults over the bed, forcing her to scramble toward the bathroom. "You let us fuck you while our brother's blood was still under your fingernails!"

She deflects another strike, her blade ringing against his claws. "Tommy set us all up! He's the real killer! He's been playing us from the beginning!"

But Ray's not listening anymore. He's lost to the rage, to the scent of his brother's killer, to Balam fury finally finding its target.

The fight spills across the small motel room, Lila desperately trying to stay mobile while avoiding doing real damage. She could have opened his throat twice already, but each time she pulls back, deflecting instead of striking. She doesn't want to hurt him—can't bear the thought of spilling more Lejeune blood.

Ray shows no such restraint. His claws rake across her shoulder, drawing blood. She stumbles, and he's on her instantly, using his superior weight and strength to drive her to the floor. Her knife skitters away across the cheap carpet.

He pins her down, one massive hand around her throat, claws pricking her skin. His face is fully woged now, golden eyes blazing with murderous intent. She can feel his breath hot against her face, can smell the musk of his rage.

This is it. This is how she dies—torn apart by a man she cares about, a man she never wanted to hurt.

But instead of the killing blow, Ray leans down and presses his mouth to her neck, right over her pulse. Not biting, just... kissing. Gentle, almost reverent, like he's saying goodbye.

Then his lips find hers, and for a moment she tastes him the way she did hours ago—wild and wanting and heartbreakingly tender.

When he pulls back, his features have shifted mostly human again, though his eyes still burn gold. He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out his truck keys, pressing them into her palm.

"Go," he says roughly, his voice breaking. "Get out of here before Beau finds you. Before I change my mind."

Lila stares up at him, tears she didn't know she was crying hot on her cheeks. "Ray—"

"Go," he repeats, rolling off her and turning away. "Just... go."

Chapter Text

The Oklahoma sun beats down mercilessly on the cracked asphalt of the Roadside Inn, a tired motel that's seen better decades. Lila sits in Ray's truck for a moment longer, hands still gripping the steering wheel even though she turned off the engine ten minutes ago. Her eyes burn with exhaustion, her body aches from driving all night, and her stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours.

She'd driven straight through the night, stopping only for gas and to grab a handful of energy bars that now taste like sawdust in her mouth. Every mile put between her and New Orleans should have made her feel safer, but all she feels is hollow. Empty. Like she left something essential behind in that motel room with Ray's broken voice telling her to go.

The motel clerk barely looks up when she pays cash for a room, sliding a key across the scarred counter with practiced indifference. Room 14. Ground floor, corner unit, easy exit routes—old habits that feel automatic now.

The room smells like industrial cleaner and old cigarettes, but it's clean enough and the deadbolt works. Lila drags her Grimm trunk inside, the familiar weight of it both comforting and damning. Everything she owns in the world, everything that makes her who she is, packed into one battered case.

She sets it down beside the bed and stares at it for a moment. All those weapons, all that knowledge, all Marie's careful training—and for what? She'd still managed to fuck everything up spectacularly. Still managed to get played by a Blutbad with a badge while falling for the very Wesen she was supposed to be hunting.

The bed creaks as she collapses onto it fully clothed, not even bothering to pull back the covers. Her stomach cramps with hunger, but the thought of food makes her nauseous. Sleep pulls at her like a riptide, and she's too tired to fight it.

The last thing she sees before her eyes drift shut is Ray's truck keys on the nightstand, gleaming dully in the afternoon light.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

They find her in the dark. Ray and Beau, moving like shadows through the motel room, golden eyes glowing in the blackness. She tries to run but her legs won't move, tries to scream but no sound comes out.

"You killed our brother," Beau says, his voice echoing strangely, and his claws are already at her throat.

"We trusted you," Ray adds, and there's hurt in his voice even as his fangs descend toward her neck.

The claws bite into her skin, and she feels her blood running warm—

Lila jolts awake with a gasp, heart hammering, sweat soaking through her shirt. The Oklahoma afternoon sun slants through the cheap motel curtains, and for a moment she can't remember where she is. Then it all comes rushing back—the flight, the drive, the crushing weight of everything she's lost.

She fumbles for her phone with shaking hands, checking the time. She's only been asleep for three hours, but it feels like minutes. Her stomach cramps with hunger, but first things first.

She opens her email and starts typing to Marie:

*You were right about Dale. You're always right. He's Blutbad - been the real killer all along, framing everyone else. Situation went FUBAR. Too many Wesen on this case - entire clan of Balam, all family to my original targets. They know I killed one of theirs (self-defense but they don't care).

Currently in Oklahoma. Could use backup but honestly might need to drop this case and run for a while. Let them chase me instead of staying near their family - might be the smart play right now. They're pack hunters and I'm marked with their scent.

Will advise. -L*

She hits send before she can second-guess herself. Marie will know what to do. Marie always knows what to do.

The shower water runs pink for the first few minutes, washing away dried blood and sweat and the lingering scent of New Orleans. Lila stands under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work out some of the knots in her shoulders. When she finally steps out, she feels marginally human again.

Her stitches have pulled loose in a couple places—the fight with Ray, probably, or maybe just the stress of the last twenty-four hours. She cleans the wound carefully, restitching where necessary with the supplies from her Grimm trunk. The familiar ritual of taking care of herself helps center her, gives her hands something to do while her mind wanders.

She pulls on her last clean clothes—jeans and a gray tank top that's seen better days. Everything else needs washing, but laundromats feel too exposed right now. Too many people, too many variables.

As she brushes out her damp hair, her thoughts drift inevitably to Ray and Beau. She wonders what they're doing right now, whether they're still looking for her or if they've moved on to other concerns. Whether Ray told Beau about letting her go, or if that's another secret festering between them.

She misses them. God help her, she actually misses them—Ray's lazy grin and easy charm, Beau's quiet strength and protective instincts. The way they'd made her feel safe for the first time in years, even knowing it was all built on lies.

But more than that, she hopes they've figured out the truth about Tommy. Hopes that once the initial rage wore off, they put the pieces together and realized she'd been telling the truth about him being the real killer. Because if they haven't, if they're still focusing all their energy on hunting her down, then Tommy's still out there. Still hunting women. Still getting away with it.

And that thought makes her stomach turn more than any nightmare.

She sits on the edge of the bed, running through everything again from the very beginning. That first night at the underground fighting ring, when she'd spotted Cal watching the fights with that predatory grace. He'd been exactly what the survivors described—tall, dark, dangerous. Too perfect a match for the sketches in her files.

But Tommy... Tommy she'd met at the bar later that night, just another off-duty cop unwinding after a long shift. He'd flirted, sure, but in that harmless, human way that made her think he was safe. Made her think he was normal. She'd even gone home with him, let him into her bed, and he'd never once shown his true nature.

How had she missed it? She was supposed to be able to sense Wesen, supposed to have that Grimm instinct that warned her when she was in the presence of something other than human. But Tommy had never once woged around her. Not in the bar when they first talked, not in his apartment when she'd searched his files, not even during sex when most Wesen lost control.

That should have been a red flag. Hell, that should have been a flashing neon sign. A Blutbad with that much self-control, able to keep his true nature hidden even in moments of passion? That took training. That took practice. That took years of deliberately hiding what he was.

She thinks about all their conversations, how smoothly he'd guided her toward the Lejeune brothers, how perfectly his "evidence" had aligned with what she wanted to believe. How he'd played the concerned cop, the reluctant ally, the man caught between duty and desire.

And all the while, he'd been the monster she was hunting. Laughing at her, probably. Watching her chase shadows while he covered his tracks with police authority and carefully planted evidence.

But the more she thinks about it, the more questions pile up. Why the Lejeune brothers specifically? None of the victims had ever named them directly—they'd just described their attacker's face, and Tommy had made sure those descriptions matched the brothers perfectly. Police sketches that looked exactly like Cal, Beau, and Ray. Witness statements that placed them near the scenes.

Had Tommy been targeting just one brother originally, or all three from the start? And why them? Was this some kind of Wesen territorial dispute—a Blutbad trying to take down a Balam clan? Or was it more personal than that?

She remembers Ray mentioning how well-known the Lejeune family was in the local Wesen community, how they had cousins and connections throughout New Orleans. Maybe Tommy saw them as a threat to his hunting grounds. Maybe he needed them gone so he could operate freely.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he just needed scapegoats, and the brothers were convenient. Three dangerous-looking Balam with reputations for trouble, perfect to pin a string of murders on. Who would question it? Who would believe their word over a decorated police officer's evidence?

The more she pieces it together, the more she realizes how long Tommy must have been planning this. The careful placement of evidence, the manipulation of witness statements, the way he'd positioned himself to control the investigation from the inside. This wasn't opportunistic—this was calculated, methodical.

This was the work of a predator who'd been perfecting his hunt for years.

But then another memory surfaces, one that makes her stomach clench with fresh doubt. That first night at the fighting ring, when Cal had noticed her red necklace. He'd called her "Red" because of it, and something about the way he'd looked at it had made her skin crawl. Like he recognized it. Like he'd seen others just like it before.

All of Tommy's victims had worn identical red necklaces. That was supposed to be the killer's signature, his way of marking his prey. But if Cal recognized her necklace, if that look in his eyes meant what she thought it meant...

"Shit," she whispers, pressing her palms against her eyes.

What if the brothers weren't innocent? What if Tommy had been framing them for his murders, but they'd been running their own operation on the side? That would explain why the frame job worked so well—just enough truth mixed with the lies.

Maybe she'd walked into a war between predators, with innocent women caught in the crossfire.

The thought that Ray and Beau might have known what Cal was doing, might have been part of it, makes her stomach turn. All that guilt over killing an "innocent" man, all those feelings she'd developed for them, and they could have been lying to her face the entire time.

Maybe she'd killed a killer after all.

But that possibility doesn't make her feel better. It makes everything worse. Because if she let her emotions blind her to what they really were, then she'd betrayed every victim who deserved justice.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

But then she shakes her head, forcing the doubt away. No. Ray wouldn't have let her go if that were true. Wouldn't have given her his truck keys and told her to run. If she'd really killed his partner in some twisted operation, he would have torn her throat out right there in that motel room.

Wouldn't he?

The question lingers, poisonous and persistent. Because maybe Ray had his own reasons for letting her live. Maybe he needed her gone more than he needed revenge. Maybe having a Grimm sniffing around their operation was more dangerous than losing Cal.

Or maybe, and this thought chills her more than the others, maybe he let her go because he knew she'd eventually figure out the truth. Maybe he was counting on her guilt and confusion to keep her running, to keep her from looking too closely at what really happened in New Orleans.

Maybe letting her live was just another kind of hunt.

Chapter Text

Lila sits at the small motel desk, a piece of hotel stationary in front of her, pen hovering over the blank page. She knows Beau will come for her eventually—it's what Balam do, what they've always done. Family blood demands justice, and she's the one who spilled it.

But before he finds her, before this all ends however it's going to end, there are things that need to be said.

She starts writing, her handwriting steadier than she expected:

Beau,

I know you're hunting me. I know you won't stop until you find me, and honestly, I understand why. I killed your brother, and there's no taking that back.

I don't regret defending myself that night. Cal gave me no choice—it was him or me in that alley, and I chose me. I won't apologize for surviving.

But I also don't regret the time we spent together. What happened between us—between all three of us—that was real. That was something I'll carry with me, whatever comes next. Those hours in your arms are a memory I'll revisit often, probably more than I should.

What I do regret is failing those women. I came to New Orleans to get them justice, and instead I got caught up in something bigger and more complicated than I understood. I should have been better. I should have seen Tommy for what he was from the beginning.

You and Ray were right about one thing—there are too many monsters in this world. I just wish I'd been better at telling which ones deserved to die.

Take care of yourself. Take care of Ray. And watch out for Tommy—he's still out there.

-Lila

She folds the letter, writes "Beau Lejeune" on the outside, and tucks it into her jacket pocket. She'll leave the jacket behind when she goes—let him find it with her scent still clinging to the fabric, let him read her words and know she meant them.

Then she pulls out her phone and scrolls through her contacts until she finds the number she's looking for. The call rings twice before a familiar voice answers.

"Well, well. Lila Boudreaux. Been a while since I heard from you."

"I need a favor," Lila says without preamble. "And before you say no, just know that women are dying and the local cops can't—or won't—stop it."

There's a pause, then the voice turns serious. "I'm all ears. What do you need?"

"New Orleans. There's a Blutbad cop named Tommy Dale who's been hunting women and framing a local Balam clan for his kills. The situation's gone to hell, and I had to burn my cover and run. But those women still deserve justice, and he's still out there."

"Consider it handled," comes the immediate reply. "I'll be on a plane tonight. Send me everything you've got."

Lila closes her eyes, relief flooding through her. "Thank you. And be careful—this one's smart. He's been playing the game a long time."

"So have I. Take care of yourself, Lila."

The line goes dead, and for the first time since she fled New Orleans, Lila feels like she can breathe a little easier. Tommy Dale's hunting days are numbered.

But guilt gnaws at her as she sets the phone down. She'd deliberately avoided mentioning her suspicions about the brothers, about Cal's recognition of the red necklace, about the possibility that they might not be as innocent as she'd wanted to believe. She'd painted them as victims of Tommy's frame job and left it at that.

The truth was, she didn't know for sure. And she wasn't about to send another Grimm after Ray and Beau based on nothing more than paranoid speculation and a guilty conscience. They were hunting her now, focused on their need for vengeance rather than hurting anyone else. As long as they stayed focused on her, as long as she kept running and kept them chasing, innocent people were safe.

Let them come for her. Let them burn their energy tracking her across state lines instead of whatever they might have been doing in New Orleans. If they really were involved in hurting those women, then keeping them occupied with a hunt for Cal's killer was the best thing she could do.

And if they were innocent? Well, then at least she wasn't sending another Grimm to kill good men who were just grieving their brother.

Either way, this was her mess. She'd clean it up herself.

She picks up her phone again and opens her email, typing quickly:

Marie - I'm coming to Portland. Situation handled but need to disappear for a while. Will explain when I get there. ETA 2 days. -L

She hits send and starts gathering her things. Time to go. Marie will understand—she always does. And if anyone can help Lila figure out what comes next, it's the woman who taught her everything she knows about surviving in a world full of monsters.

Even when some of those monsters used to hold you in their arms and make you feel safe.

Chapter Text

The Portland hospital smells like disinfectant and despair. Lila stands in the doorway of room 314, her duffel bag still slung over her shoulder, staring at the woman who raised her lying motionless in a hospital bed.

Marie looks smaller somehow, diminished by the tubes and wires that snake across her body. Her usually sharp features are slack, peaceful in a way that Lila has never seen before. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, a mechanical rhythm that feels obscenely loud in the silence.

"She's been like this for three days," a nurse says quietly behind her. "Are you family?"

Lila nods, not trusting her voice. In every way that matters, Marie is the only family she's ever had. The woman who taught her to fight, to hunt, to survive in a world where monsters wear human faces and trust can get you killed.

The woman who isn't here to help her make sense of what happened in New Orleans.

"The doctors aren't sure when—or if—she'll wake up," the nurse continues gently. "But you can talk to her. Sometimes they can hear us."

The nurse leaves, and Lila is alone with the woman who shaped her entire life. She drops her bag and moves to the chair beside the bed, reaching out to take Marie's hand. It's warm but unresponsive, and the sight of those capable hands lying still makes Lila's throat tight.

"I fucked up, Marie," she whispers, her voice cracking. "I fucked up so bad, and I don't know how to fix it."

The heart monitor continues its steady rhythm, but Marie doesn't stir. Doesn't offer the sharp advice or knowing look that Lila desperately needs.

For the first time since she was fifteen years old, Lila is truly alone.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

She's been sitting there for maybe twenty minutes, holding Marie's unresponsive hand and trying to figure out what the hell she's supposed to do next, when footsteps approach the doorway. Lila looks up to see a man in his early thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and the kind of face that probably stops traffic on a regular basis.

He pauses in the doorway, clearly surprised to find someone else there. "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize..." He clears his throat, offering a polite but cautious smile. "I'm Nick. Nick Burkhardt. Marie's my aunt."

Lila stares at him for a moment, caught off guard by more than just his unexpected arrival. Jesus, the man is gorgeous—all sharp jaw and warm eyes, the kind of good looks that seem almost unfair. She forces herself to focus, remembering that this is Marie's nephew, the one she'd come to Portland to check on.

But she has no idea if he knows what Marie really is, what she really does. If he's awakened as a Grimm or if he's still living in blissful ignorance of the world that exists in the shadows.

"I'm Lila," she says carefully, standing but not releasing Marie's hand. "Lila Boudreaux. I'm... a friend of your aunt's."

Nick's expression softens slightly. "She mentioned you once or twice. Said you were like family." He moves closer to the bed, his gaze shifting to Marie's still form. "Have you been here long?"

"Just got in from out of state," Lila replies, studying his face for any sign of recognition, any hint that he knows more than he's letting on. "Came as soon as I heard."

She hesitates, then asks the question that's been eating at her since she walked into the room. "What happened to her? The nurses weren't very specific."

Nick's jaw tightens, and she sees something dark flicker in his eyes. "We were attacked. Outside my house." He runs a hand through his hair, the memory clearly painful. "Some kind of... assailant with a weapon. He came after Marie specifically."

Lila's grip on Marie's hand tightens involuntarily. Someone had targeted Marie directly, tracked her down while she was visiting family. Either her attacker was incredibly lucky, or they knew exactly who they were hunting.

"Did they catch whoever did it?" she asks, though she suspects she already knows the answer.

Nick shakes his head grimly. "Marie fought back, managed to take him down. But not before..." He gestures helplessly toward the bed. "The weapon caught her across the face. Head trauma. The doctors say there was significant brain swelling."

His voice carries a weight that suggests he knows more than he's saying—about the attack, about the kind of person who would come after his aunt with what sounds like medieval weaponry. But whether that's about Grimms or just about being a cop trying to make sense of violence, Lila can't tell.

"She's tough," Lila says quietly, more to herself than to him. "She's survived worse."

"Yeah," Nick agrees, but there's doubt in his voice. "She has."

An awkward silence settles between them, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor. Lila studies Nick's face, trying to read him without being obvious about it. Marie had come to Portland to check on him—but had she found what she was looking for?

"Marie mentioned you're a police officer," Lila says carefully, keeping her tone conversational. "That must be... interesting work. Especially in a city like Portland."

Nick nods, his posture straightening slightly at the familiar topic. "Detective, actually. Homicide division. Been on the force for a few years now."

"Must see a lot of strange things," she probes gently. "Cases that don't quite make sense, you know? Things that seem almost... unnatural."

Something flickers in Nick's eyes—recognition, maybe, or just the wariness of a cop who's learned not to trust leading questions. "Every city has its share of weird cases. Why do you ask?"

Lila shrugs, trying to look casual. "Just curious. Marie always had a fascination with the unusual. Old folklore, strange stories, that kind of thing. I figured she might have shared some of that with family."

"She did tell some interesting stories when I was a kid," Nick admits slowly. "But I always thought they were just... stories. Fairy tales, you know?"

The way he says it makes Lila's pulse quicken. There's something there, something he's not saying. Either he's starting to suspect those "fairy tales" might be real, or he already knows and he's being just as careful as she is.

"Funny how some fairy tales turn out to be more true than we expect," she says quietly, watching his reaction.

Before Nick can respond, her phone buzzes loudly in the quiet hospital room. The caller ID shows an unknown number, but something cold settles in her stomach as she looks at it.

"Excuse me," she murmurs to Nick, stepping toward the window as she answers. "Hello?"

"Well, well, cher." Ray's familiar drawl fills her ear, lazy and mocking. "Portland, Oregon. Real pretty this time of year, ain't it?"

Lila's blood turns to ice. She glances back at Nick, who's watching her with polite curiosity, then turns to face the window completely.

"Slowing down already?" Ray continues, amusement thick in his voice. "What's the matter, tired of running? Or maybe you got family up there worth visiting? That's sweet, Lila. Real touching."

Her grip tightens on the phone. He knows where she is. How the hell had he tracked her this fast?

"Nothing to say? That's not like you, sugar. Usually got plenty of smart remarks." His tone turns colder. "Don't get too comfortable. We'll be seeing you real soon."

Lila hangs up without a word, her hands shaking as she shoves the phone back into her pocket. When she turns around, Nick is studying her with the sharp attention of a detective who's just watched someone receive a very unwelcome call.

"Everything alright?" he asks carefully.

Lila forces a casual shrug, though her heart is still hammering. "Just one of those annoying robotic calls. You know how it is."

Nick doesn't look entirely convinced, but he nods politely. The silence stretches between them again, heavier now with unspoken questions.

Lila looks down at Marie's still form, then back at Nick. She needs to leave—now, before Ray and Beau track her here and put Nick in danger. But she can't just disappear without explanation.

"I should probably get going," she says, pulling out her phone again. "But could I... would you mind calling me if she wakes up? I know it's a lot to ask, but she's important to me."

She rattles off her number, and Nick saves it in his phone with a small, understanding smile. "Of course. I'll let you know if anything changes."

"Thank you." Lila moves back to Marie's bedside, reaching out to squeeze her unresponsive hand one more time. "Come on, Marie," she whispers, too low for Nick to hear. "I need you to wake up. I don't know what the hell I'm doing without you."

But Marie remains still, and Lila knows she can't wait any longer. She gives Nick a final nod and heads for the door, not trusting herself to look back.

Chapter Text

The motel room is a carbon copy of every other cheap room Lila's stayed in over the past week—same stale air, same industrial carpet, same sense of temporary sanctuary that could evaporate at any moment. She'd driven across town after leaving the hospital, putting distance between herself and any potential watchers, and paid cash for a room at the Riverside Inn under a fake name.

Now she sits cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open in front of her and a stack of printed pages scattered around her like a paper fortress. She's been at this for two hours, methodically researching everything she can find about the attack on Marie and Nick.

Police reports, local news articles, hospital records she probably shouldn't have access to—Lila has always been good at finding information people don't want found. The official story is sparse: an assault outside a private residence, one attacker deceased, one victim hospitalized in critical condition. No mention of weapons beyond "blunt force trauma." No description of the assailant beyond "male, approximately 30-40 years old."

But it's what's not in the reports that tells the real story. No mention of how a woman in her sixties, weakened by cancer treatment, managed to kill a younger, stronger attacker. No questions about why someone would target Marie specifically. No investigation into the attacker's background or motives.

It's the kind of sanitized report that gets filed when the truth is too strange for official channels.

Lila pulls up another browser window and starts searching for Nick Burkhardt specifically. Detective, Portland PD, clean record, decent clearance rate. Lives in a modest house in a quiet neighborhood with his girlfriend, Juliette Silverton. On the surface, he's exactly what he appears to be—a good cop living a normal life.

But Marie hadn't driven across the country just to visit family. She'd come to Portland for a reason, and that reason was probably sleeping in Nick's DNA, waiting to be awakened by trauma or stress or simple genetic inevitability.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, and Lila's blood goes cold. Unknown number again.

She stares at the screen for a moment, torn between dread and something that feels dangerously close to hope. It could be Nick calling about Marie. But it could also be Ray, and despite everything—despite the hunt, despite the threats—part of her aches to hear his voice again. Or Beau's. The rational part of her brain knows how fucked up that is, but her heart doesn't seem to care about rational anymore.

She answers on the fourth ring, trying to keep her voice steady. "Hello?"

"Lila." The voice is quiet, controlled, and definitely not Nick.

Beau.

Her chest tightens, a confusing mix of relief and terror flooding through her. She closes her eyes, gripping the phone tighter than necessary.

"Hello, Beau," she says softly.

For a moment, there's only silence on the line, and she finds herself holding her breath. Even knowing he's calling to threaten her, even knowing he wants her dead, she's pathetically grateful to hear his voice. It's sick how much she's missed it—the low rumble, the careful way he chooses his words, the hint of warmth that used to be there when he said her name.

"You sound tired," he says finally, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that makes her throat tighten.

"I am," she admits before she can stop herself. The honesty slips out before she can put her walls back up.

"Good." The word is quiet but cutting. "You should be. Running's exhausting work."

She deserves that. She knows she deserves worse, but it still stings. "Beau—"

"No," he cuts her off, his voice hardening. "You don't get to say my name like that. Not anymore. Not after what you did."

The pain in his voice hits her harder than Ray's mocking ever could. She presses her free hand to her chest, trying to ease the ache that's building there. She wants to explain, wants to tell him about Cal and the red necklace and all her doubts about what really happened that night. But she knows he won't listen. Can't listen. Not yet.

"I know," she whispers, and means it.

While Beau's silence stretches over the line, Lila's eyes drift back to her laptop screen. She's been scrolling through what looks like leaked crime scene photos, and one image makes her breath catch. The weapon—a massive scythe with intricate engravings along the blade.

She leans closer, squinting at the inscription carved into the metal. The letters are ornate, old-fashioned, and definitely not English.

"Erntemaschinen von den Grimms," she reads aloud without thinking, the German words rolling off her tongue as she translates the meaning in her head.

The silence on Beau's end becomes absolute. Then she hears something that makes her heart clench—Ray's voice in the background, sharp with worry.

"What did she just say? Beau, what the hell did she just say?"

There's a muffled sound, like Beau covering the phone, but she can still hear Ray's agitated voice growing more urgent. "If she knows about Reapers, if she's dealing with that kind of shit... Beau, she's in deeper than we thought."

When Beau comes back on the line, his voice has changed completely. The anger is still there, but underneath it is something else—concern, maybe even fear.

"Lila," he says carefully, "where exactly are you right now?"

Despite everything—the hunt, the threats, the fact that he wants her dead—Lila finds herself smiling. It's a small, bitter thing, but genuine. "What's wrong, Beau? Worried a Reaper might kill me before you get the chance to?"

She can hear Ray saying something urgent in the background, but she doesn't wait for Beau's answer. She hangs up and immediately powers down the phone, pulling out the battery for good measure. Whatever they were about to say, she doesn't need to hear it. She's got bigger problems than two vengeful Balam brothers right now.

Turning back to her laptop, Lila stares at the image of the scythe, her mind racing. How the fuck had Marie ended up on the Reapers' radar? She'd been careful for decades, operating in the shadows, keeping her existence secret from exactly this kind of organization. Something must have changed, something must have exposed her.

Or maybe it was about Nick. Maybe the Reapers had figured out there was a new Grimm awakening and they'd come to cut the bloodline at its source.

Either way, if there had been one Reaper in Portland, there could be more. And if they were targeting Grimms, then Nick was walking around with a bullseye on his back and didn't even know it.

Lila cracks her knuckles and gets back to work. Time to figure out exactly what kind of shitstorm Marie had walked into—and whether it was still hunting in Portland.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

The bar is exactly what Lila needs—dark, anonymous, and serving drinks strong enough to burn away the knot of anxiety that's been building in her chest since she saw that scythe. She orders a double whiskey and claims a corner booth where she can watch the door and nurse her drink in relative peace.

Every Grimm knows about Reapers. They're the boogeyman that haunts every hunter's nightmares, the reason most Grimms never get to retire and die peacefully in their beds. Marie used to joke that the only good thing about her cancer was that it might kill her before the Reapers found her.

Apparently, she'd been wrong about that.

Lila takes a long sip of whiskey and tries to process what this means. Reapers don't just stumble across Grimms by accident—they hunt with purpose, with intelligence networks, with resources that span continents. If they'd found Marie, it meant someone had exposed her. Someone had given them information.

The question was whether that someone was hunting other Grimms too, or if Marie had just been unlucky enough to surface on their radar at the wrong time.

And then there was Nick. If the Reapers knew about him, if they suspected he was awakening, then Marie's attack might just be the beginning. They'd come for him next, and unlike Marie, he had no idea what he was up against.

Lila signals the bartender for another round, then another. The whiskey burns going down, but it's not doing much to quiet the storm in her head. She's halfway through her fourth shot when a shadow falls across her table.

"Hey there, beautiful. You look like you could use some company."

She doesn't look up from her glass. "Not interested."

The man—mid-thirties, stubble, the kind of guy who thinks persistence equals charm—slides into the booth across from her anyway. "Come on, don't be like that. I'm buying."

"I said no." Lila finally raises her eyes, and whatever he sees in her expression makes him hesitate for a second. But only a second.

"What's your problem, lady? I'm just being friendly."

"And I'm just trying to drink alone. Get lost."

His face flushes red, ego clearly bruised. "Fine. Be a frigid bitch then. Your loss."

He storms off toward the bar, probably to tell his buddies what a cold cunt she is, but Lila's already dismissed him. She's got bigger problems than some asshole's wounded pride.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

An hour later, Lila stumbles out of the bar into the cool Portland night, the whiskey making everything feel slightly disconnected and blurry around the edges. She's definitely drunk—not falling-down wasted, but enough that her usual razor-sharp awareness has dulled to something softer, less guarded.

She's fumbling for her car keys when footsteps approach from behind.

"Well, well. Look who decided to come back outside."

Lila turns, swaying slightly, to find the same asshole from the bar. He's clearly been drinking too, his face flushed and his eyes unfocused with liquid courage.

"Told you to get lost," she slurs, taking a step back.

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't feel like listening." He moves closer, backing her against her car. "Think you're too good for me? Think you can just dismiss me like I'm nothing?"

"Back off." Lila's hand moves toward her jacket, muscle memory reaching for a weapon even through the alcohol haze.

"Or what? You gonna—"

A fist connects with the side of his face, sending him stumbling sideways. A second figure grabs him by the shirt and shoves him hard against the brick wall of the bar.

"She said back off," a familiar voice growls. "So back the fuck off."

"Jesus, okay, okay!" The guy holds up his hands, blood streaming from his nose. "Crazy bitch isn't worth it anyway!"

He hurries away into the night, and Lila blinks through her drunken haze at her unexpected rescuers. It takes a moment for her alcohol-slowed brain to process what she's seeing, but when it does, her heart nearly stops.

Ray and Beau stand in front of her, both breathing hard from the brief altercation, both watching her with expressions she can't quite read in the dim streetlight.

For a split second, Lila's heart leaps with something that feels dangerously like relief. They're here. They found her. Despite everything, some stupid part of her is actually happy to see them.

But then reality crashes back through the whiskey haze, and her hand immediately goes to her gun, drawing it with drunken but practiced precision. Her stance wavers slightly, but the weapon stays steady in her grip.

"Don't," she warns, though her voice isn't quite as sharp as usual. "I mean it. Don't come any closer."

Ray raises his hands slowly, that familiar lazy grin nowhere to be found. "Easy, cher. We're not here to—"

"And I could've handled that asshole myself," she interrupts, anger flaring through the alcohol. "I don't need you two playing hero. Especially not when you're probably here to kill me anyway."

Beau takes a careful step forward, his voice low and calm. "Put the gun down, Lila. We're not going to hurt you."

"Right now," Ray adds, and earns a sharp look from his brother.

Lila's grip tightens on the weapon, her eyes flicking between them. Part of her wants to believe Beau, wants to trust the concern she heard in his voice earlier. But the other part—the part that's kept her alive this long—knows better than to trust two Balam who have every reason to want her dead.

"Then what the hell are you doing here?"

The question hangs in the air between them. Ray and Beau exchange a look—quick, loaded with meaning she can't quite decipher through the alcohol haze. Neither of them answers immediately, and the silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable.

Beau opens his mouth, then closes it again. Ray runs a hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

Lila stares at them, her gun still trained in their direction, and suddenly the pieces click together. Her eyes widen as understanding dawns.

"Oh my god," she breathes, disbelief creeping into her voice. "You care about me."

"Lila—" Beau starts, but she cuts him off.

"No, that's it, isn't it? You heard about the Reapers and you got worried. And then you saw some drunk asshole hassling me and you just... what? Couldn't help yourselves?" Her voice rises slightly, a mix of amazement and accusation. "You're supposed to be hunting me down to kill me, and instead you're out here playing my fucking bodyguards!"

Ray shifts uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. "It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" Lila's grip on the gun loosens slightly, though she doesn't lower it. "You drove all the way to Portland because you were worried about me. Worried that someone else might hurt me before you get the chance to."

The truth of it sits between them like a live wire, crackling with tension and possibilities none of them are quite ready to examine.

Then Ray laughs—low, dark, and utterly without humor. "You want the truth, cher? Yeah, some twisted part of us cares. But we want you alive until we kill someone you love. Make you feel what we felt when you put Cal in the ground."

Her mind immediately goes to Marie, lying helpless in that hospital bed, tubes and wires keeping her alive. The image of Ray or Beau walking into that room, of Marie's peaceful face turning to terror and pain—

The gun kicks in her hand before she's even consciously decided to pull the trigger. Ray stumbles backward, cursing as he grabs his left arm, blood seeping between his fingers.

"You fucking—" he starts, but Lila's already swinging the gun toward Beau, her face a mask of cold fury.

"If either of you go near Marie, I will put you both in the ground next to your brother," she snarls, the alcohol burning away under the heat of pure rage. "I swear to God, I will end you."

Ray is still swearing, examining the bullet wound, but Beau hasn't moved. He's watching her with those dark eyes, and she can't tell if what she sees there is respect or calculation.

"That was a warning shot," Lila adds, her voice deadly quiet. "The next one won't be."

She keeps the gun trained on Beau, her stance steady despite the alcohol still coursing through her system. Her finger rests on the trigger, and every instinct she has screams that pointing a weapon at him will get her killed. But she doesn't lower it. Can't lower it. Not when Marie's life hangs in the balance.

The transformation happens almost simultaneously. Ray's face contorts first, pain and rage triggering his woge—jaw extending, fangs erupting, golden fur sprouting along his cheekbones. Beau follows a heartbeat later, his own features shifting into the predatory mask of a Balam, eyes blazing with barely controlled fury.

They're both fully woged now, standing in the dim alley light like something out of a nightmare. Low growls rumble from their chests, lips pulled back to reveal razor-sharp teeth. Their claws flex at their sides, and Lila knows she's seconds away from a fight she probably can't win.

That's when the sirens start.

Distant at first, but growing closer fast. Someone must have heard the gunshot and called it in. The sound cuts through the tension like a blade, all three of them freezing as the wail of approaching police cars echoes off the alley walls.

"Shit," Ray snarls through his transformed features, still clutching his bleeding arm.

The sirens are getting closer, maybe two blocks away now. Beau's eyes flick between Lila and the mouth of the alley, calculating. His features begin to shift back to human, though his eyes still burn with predatory intensity.

"We split up," he says curtly. "Opposite directions. Now."

Ray is already forcing his own transformation back, grimacing as the change pulls at his wounded arm. "Yeah, no shit."

But as Lila starts to back toward the far end of the alley, Beau calls out one more question. "Why aren't you going after Tommy? You know what he is now. You know what he's done."

Lila pauses, glancing back at them. For a moment, she considers telling them about the other Grimm she's already set in motion, about how their obsession with hunting her might have actually saved their lives by keeping them away from New Orleans. But the sirens are too close, and there's too much bad blood between them for explanations.

"I'm already on it," she says simply.

Without another word, she turns and runs into the darkness, leaving the brothers to find their own way out. Behind her, she hears their footsteps pounding in the opposite direction just as the first police car rounds the corner, red and blue lights painting the empty alley in strobing color.

As she disappears into the Portland night, Lila allows herself one grim smile. Let them chase her across the country. Better that than having the Grimm she'd sent after Tommy decide the Lejeune brothers needed killing too. 

Chapter Text

Lila wakes up on the cold tile of the motel bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against the grimy linoleum, her body curled around the base of the toilet like she'd been praying to it all night. Her mouth tastes like whiskey and regret, her head pounds like someone's taking a sledgehammer to her skull, and she can't remember how the hell she got here.

She sits up slowly, groaning as every muscle in her body protests. Fragments of the night before flicker through her mind like broken glass—the bar, shots of whiskey, some asshole who wouldn't take no for an answer. And then... Ray and Beau. The threat against Marie. The gun kicking in her hand as she put a bullet in Ray's arm.

She remembers that part crystal clear, even through the whiskey haze. The brothers, woged and snarling. Police sirens. Running in opposite directions. The rest is fuzzy, but shooting Ray? That she remembers with perfect, terrifying clarity.

The phone starts ringing in the other room, shrill and insistent. Lila drags herself to her feet, using the sink for support, and stumbles toward the sound. Her reflection in the mirror stops her cold—pale, hollow-eyed, looking like she'd been hit by a truck and left for dead.

She grabs the phone on the fifth ring, her voice coming out as a croak. "Yeah?"

"Lila? It's Nick. Nick Burkhardt." His voice is tight with excitement and relief. "She's awake. Marie's awake. She's asking for you."

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Lila makes it to the hospital in record time, her hair still damp from the world's quickest shower, wearing yesterday's jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt she'd grabbed from her bag. She's moving on pure adrenaline and the desperate need to see Marie alive and conscious.

But when she reaches the third floor, she stops short. Two uniformed police officers flank Marie's door, and a third sits at a makeshift desk nearby, checking IDs and making notes. This is new.

"I'm here to see Marie Kessler," Lila tells the officer at the desk, pulling out her driver's license.

He studies it carefully, then checks her name against a list. "You're on the approved visitor list. But I need to let you know—there was another attempt on Ms. Kessler's life early this morning. Security's been doubled."

Lila's blood turns cold. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine. Awake and alert. But we're not taking any chances."

The officer waves her through, and Lila pushes open the door to find Marie sitting up in bed, looking pale but very much alive. Nick stands beside her, still wearing yesterday's clothes and looking like he hasn't slept.

Marie's face lights up when she sees Lila. "There you are," she says, her voice hoarse but warm. "Nick, stop hovering. She's not going to break."

Lila doesn't wait for permission. She crosses the room in three quick strides and wraps her arms around Marie, careful of the tubes and wires but holding her tight enough to confirm she's really there, really breathing, really awake.

"I thought I'd lost you," Lila whispers against Marie's shoulder.

"I'm tougher than I look," Marie says softly, patting Lila's back. "Though apparently not tough enough to avoid Reapers."

Nick clears his throat awkwardly. "I hate to break this up, but I need to get back to work. Captain's already wondering where I've been." He looks between them, clearly sensing there's more to their relationship than he understands. "I'll check in later, okay?"

"Go," Marie says, waving him toward the door. "And Nick? Thank you. For everything."

He nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. As soon as they're alone, Lila pulls back to study Marie's face.

"Is he?" she asks simply.

Marie's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Yes. But he needs to figure it out himself. Don't interfere, Lila. Let him come to it naturally."

Lila nods, understanding. Every Grimm's awakening is different, and forced revelations rarely end well. "I'll respect that. Besides, I won't be in Portland much longer anyway."

"Oh?"

"I need to get to Seattle."

"Of course you do," Marie says with a knowing smile. "Always something pulling you to the next city, the next hunt." She shifts in the hospital bed, making herself more comfortable. "It's been too long since we caught up properly. A year? More?"

"Thirteen months," Lila says, settling into the chair beside the bed. "Since that Wendigo case in Montana."

They fall into the familiar rhythm of shared stories—Marie catching her up on the cancer diagnosis, the experimental treatments, her decision to check on Nick. Lila shares her own tales from the road, the hunts that went smoothly, the ones that didn't, the long nights in anonymous motels wondering if she was following in Marie's footsteps or carving her own path.

It's comfortable, this exchange of information and affection, two women who understand each other in ways the rest of the world never could. But underneath the surface pleasantries, Lila can see Marie studying her, reading the signs of exhaustion and something else—a kind of emotional damage that hasn't been there before.

"You look tired," Marie says finally. "More than just road-tired. What happened, Lila?"

And then it all comes pouring out. New Orleans, the hunt for the Lejeune brothers, Cal's death in the alley. The way she'd fallen for Ray and Beau, how she'd let them mark her, how she'd broken every rule Marie had ever taught her. Tommy's betrayal, the revelation that he was the real killer, the way everything had fallen apart when the truth came out.

Lila tells Marie about the chase, about Ray letting her go, about the phone calls and threats. She even admits to shooting Ray outside the Portland bar, though she leaves out most of the details about exactly how drunk she'd been.

Marie listens without interruption, her expression growing more serious with each revelation. When Lila finally finishes, the hospital room feels heavy with silence.

"Jesus, Lila," Marie says quietly. "You really did step in it this time."

"I know." Lila slumps in her chair, suddenly feeling the weight of everything she's been carrying. "I fucked up. I let my emotions get in the way of the job, and now innocent women are dead because I was chasing the wrong monsters."

"Were they innocent?" Marie asks, her voice carefully neutral. "The brothers?"

Lila hesitates. "I don't know. That's the hell of it—I still don't know for sure."

Marie is quiet for a long moment, studying Lila's face with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "Then you need to deal with it," she says finally. "Whatever the truth is, you need to find it and handle it. Running won't solve anything."

Lila nods, knowing Marie is right. She always is.

"You should get some rest," Lila says, standing and smoothing down her wrinkled shirt. "You just woke up from a coma. You need to recover."

"I'm fine," Marie protests, but there are already shadows under her eyes, and Lila can see the exhaustion pulling at her.

Lila leans down and hugs her again, longer this time, memorizing the feeling of Marie's arms around her, the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with hospital antiseptic. "I love you," she whispers. "You know that, right?"

"I love you too, baby girl," Marie says softly. "Now go. And be careful."

Lila straightens, forces a smile, and heads for the door. She doesn't look back—if she had, she might have seen something final in Marie's expression, something that looked almost like goodbye.

Instead, she walks out of the hospital room and out of Marie's life forever, never knowing it would be the last time she'd hear that voice, feel those arms around her, or see the woman who raised her alive.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Back at the motel, Lila pulls out a new burner phone and dials the number for the Grimm she'd sent after Tommy. It rings once, twice, three times before going to voicemail. She hangs up without leaving a message and tries again. Same result.

A cold knot forms in her stomach. Grimms always answer their phones. Always. It's survival 101.

She spreads her research papers across the bed—police reports, hospital records, everything she'd gathered about Nick and the attack on Marie. If the other Grimm isn't responding, she needs to know what's happening in Portland. She needs to scout Nick's house, see if there are more Reapers in the area, figure out if—

Her phone rings. Unknown number, but when she answers, the voice on the other end is crisp, professional, and completely unfamiliar.

"Delilah Boudreaux."

It's not a question. Lila's blood goes cold. Very few people know her real name, and even fewer would use it like that—like a statement of fact.

"Who is this?"

"Martin Meisner. I believe you know who I am."

She does. Every Grimm worth their salt knows about Meisner and the Resistance. You don't fuck with them. Ever. They have resources, connections, and a reach that spans continents. If Meisner is calling her directly, it's not good news.

"What do you want?" she asks, though part of her already knows.

"The Grimm you were in contact with—the one you sent to New Orleans—has stopped reporting to the organization. As of forty-eight hours ago, he went dark. Since you were his last known contact and the one who sent him on assignment, you're now responsible for him."

Lila closes her eyes, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. She wants to say no. Wants to tell Meisner she's done with New Orleans, done with that whole fucked-up mess. But you don't say no to the Resistance. Not if you want to keep breathing.

"I understand," she says finally.

"Good. You'll return to New Orleans and determine his status. If he's alive, bring him home. If he's not..." Meisner's voice turns colder. "Find out who killed him and handle it accordingly."

"And if I refuse?"

There's a pause, and when Meisner speaks again, his tone is absolutely arctic. "You won't."

Lila knows a threat when she hears one. "How do I contact you?"

"You don't. I'll contact you. And Boudreaux? Don't disappoint me."

The line goes dead, leaving Lila staring at her phone and trying not to think about how royally fucked she is.

Chapter Text

Lila moves with mechanical precision, shoving clothes into her duffel bag, checking her weapons, making sure she has everything she'll need for what's probably going to be a one-way trip back to New Orleans. The Resistance doesn't give assignments with happy endings. She and Marie had worked with them from time to time over the years—lending expertise, sharing intelligence, the occasional favor—but never for them. Marie had always been careful to maintain their independence, to keep them from being pulled too deep into the organization's web. Now Lila understands why.

She pauses over a piece of motel stationary, then scrawls a quick note in her messy handwriting: Heading back to your home. Race ya.

She leaves it on the nightstand where Ray and Beau will find it when they inevitably track her here. Let them know she's not running scared—she's going back to finish what she started. Whether that's finding the missing Grimm or settling things with Tommy, she'll figure out when she gets there.

Her phone rings as she's zipping up the bag. Nick's name appears on the screen, and for a moment her heart lifts. Maybe Marie is awake again. Maybe she has more advice, more guidance for the clusterfuck Lila's life has become.

"Nick?" she answers, already smiling.

"Lila, I..." His voice is heavy, broken, and the smile dies on her lips. "I'm sorry. She's gone. Marie's gone."

The words hit her like a punch to the chest. The bag slips from her numb fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

"What?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.

"She died about an hour ago. Another attack. She fought back, but..." Nick's voice cracks. "She was asking for you at the end. I'm sorry I couldn't call sooner."

Lila sinks onto the bed, the phone pressed to her ear, but she can't hear anything over the roaring in her head. Marie is dead. The woman who raised her, who taught her everything, who was supposed to help her figure out this mess—gone.

"Lila? Are you there?"

"I'm here," she manages, though her voice sounds foreign to her own ears.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

The highway stretches endlessly ahead of her, Ray's truck eating up miles of asphalt as Lila drives south toward New Orleans. She'd left Portland within an hour of Nick's call, unable to stay in a city where Marie would never be again. Part of her wanted to turn around, to be there for the funeral, but Grimms hardly ever get to lay their own to rest. Too dangerous. Too many enemies who'd love to pick off a gathering of hunters.

So she drives, Marie's voice echoing in her memory, the weight of being truly alone settling heavier with each passing mile. She's got at least thirty-seven hours of driving ahead of her, maybe three days if she stops to sleep, thirty-seven hours to figure out how the hell she's going to find a missing Grimm in a city full of people who want her dead.

Her phone buzzes against the dashboard. Unknown number, but she recognizes the area code. New Orleans.

"Yeah?" she answers, not bothering to hide her exhaustion.

"Well, well. 'Heading back to your home. Race ya.'" Ray's voice is amused, lazy. "Real cute, cher. You always did have a flair for the dramatic."

Her heart does something stupid at the sound of his voice, but she forces her grip to stay steady on the wheel. "You found my note."

"Found your motel room too. Still warm when we got there. You're getting sloppy."

"Or maybe I wanted you to find it." She merges into the left lane, pressing harder on the accelerator. "How's my old room treating you?"

Ray chuckles. "Oh, we're not staying, cher. Just wanted to see what you left behind. But don't worry, sugar. We'll be seeing you real soon."

There's something twisted in her that loves this—the cat and mouse game, the way his voice carries that edge of frustration beneath the charm. He's annoyed at having to hunt her down, and that knowledge sends a thrill through her that she definitely shouldn't be feeling. She wants him to keep chasing her. Wants both of them to follow her back to New Orleans, where this whole mess started.

"You know what, Ray?" she says, her voice taking on a taunting edge. "I'm starting to think you boys enjoy the chase more than you'd like to admit. How many states is this now? Five? Six?"

She can practically hear his jaw clench through the phone. "You think this is a game?"

"Isn't it?" She grins at the empty highway ahead of her. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you could have caught me by now if you really wanted to. Maybe you're having too much fun."

The silence stretches for a beat too long, and she knows she's hit a nerve.

"See you in New Orleans, boys," she says sweetly, and hangs up before he can respond.

Let them stew on that for the next thousand miles.

Chapter Text

The truck stop outside Redding, California sits like a fluorescent island in the darkness, all harsh light and diesel fumes. Lila pulls Ray's stolen truck into the far corner of the lot, away from the main flow of eighteen-wheelers and late-night travelers. Twelve hours of driving have left her hands cramped on the wheel, her back aching against the worn bench seat, her eyes burning from staring at endless highway.

She checks her phone—3:17 AM. No missed calls from Nick about Marie. No messages from the missing Grimm she's supposed to find. No taunting texts from Ray or Beau, though she knows they're somewhere behind her on this ribbon of asphalt, following her scent and her choices back toward New Orleans.

The truck's engine ticks as it cools, and the sudden silence feels heavy after hours of road noise. Through the windshield, she watches a trucker in a Peterbilt fill his tank, moving with the mechanical precision of someone who's done this a thousand times. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that monsters hunt in the shadows and women like her exist to kill them.

She locks the doors, cracks the windows for air that tastes like diesel and night, and curls up against the passenger side. Her jacket becomes a pillow, her knife stays within reach at her hip—old habits that have kept her breathing this long. Sleep comes in fragments, broken by the rumble of passing trucks and the crunch of footsteps on gravel. In her dreams, Marie's voice echoes warnings about trusting the wrong people, while golden eyes watch her from dark alleyways that smell like rain and blood.

The soft click of metal on metal penetrates her consciousness—not quite enough to wake her fully, but enough to register as wrong. Then the passenger door yanks open with a screech of hinges, and simultaneously the driver's side door flies wide. Cold night air rushes in as Lila jerks awake, adrenaline slamming through her system.

She sits up fast, reaching instinctively for her knife, but fingers tangle in her hair and yank her head back hard. Her scalp burns as strong hands grab her wrists, pinning them above her head, while other hands seize her ankles and drag her legs straight.

"Easy, cher," Ray's voice purrs in the darkness, lazy and dangerous. "No need to make this harder than it has to be."

Lila blinks through the pain, her vision clearing enough to see Beau at her feet, his large hands wrapped around her ankles like shackles. Ray looms over her from the passenger side, one hand twisted in her hair, the other pressing her wrists against the bench seat. They've got her pinned completely—no leverage, no way to reach her weapons.

"Miss us?" Ray asks, his grin visible even in the dim truck stop lighting.

Lila thrashes against their grip, twisting her wrists and trying to kick free, but their hold only tightens. Then she feels the shift—bones cracking, flesh rippling as both brothers begin to woge. Ray's face elongates above her, fangs erupting as golden fur sprouts along his cheekbones. His claws pierce through her jacket sleeves, pricking her skin with sharp points of pain.

Beau's transformation follows, his hands growing larger and stronger around her ankles, claws digging into her jeans hard enough to draw blood. Low growls rumble from both their chests, predatory and threatening in the confined space of the truck cab.

She stops struggling, forcing her body to go limp beneath them. No point in fighting when it'll only make them dig deeper.

"Of course I missed you boys," she says, her voice steady despite the claws pressing into her flesh. "All that rough play—it's been so boring without it." She tilts her head, studying Ray's woged features with mock concern. "Speaking of which, how's that arm healing up? Hope I didn't do any permanent damage."

Ray's growl deepens, vibrating through his chest as his golden eyes flash with anger. "Keep that pretty mouth quiet, cher," he snarls, leaning closer until his breath is hot against her face, "or I'll find something else for it to do while you're pinned down like this."

"Ray." Beau's voice cuts sharp through the truck cab. "Shut up."

Lila's heart hammers against her ribs, heat flooding through her despite the danger—or maybe because of it. The position she's in, Ray looming over her with that predatory intensity, the implicit threat in his words... her pulse quickens in ways that have nothing to do with fear.

Beau's grip on her ankles loosens slightly, though he doesn't release her completely. "We're just here to talk," he says, his voice more controlled than his brother's. "About New Orleans. About Tommy."

The anxiety crawls up Lila's spine like ice water. She's completely exposed here, pinned down in the confined space of the truck cab with nowhere to run. Any other Grimm would be dead already—throat torn out, blood soaking into the bench seat, body left for the truck stop cleaners to find in the morning. They could gut her right here and watch her bleed out, and there wouldn't be a damn thing she could do to stop them.

But instead of terror, her treacherous mind fixates on Ray above her. The way his woged features cast shadows in the dim light, the heat radiating from his body, the memory of how those hands felt on her skin when they weren't threatening to kill her. She finds herself staring at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like if he leaned down and kissed her instead of growled threats. Wondering what it would be like to have his hands around her throat for entirely different reasons—

She forces the thoughts away, jaw clenching as she meets Beau's eyes instead. Safer territory, though not by much.

"Why the change of heart?" she asks, proud that her voice doesn't shake. "Last I checked, you two were planning to hunt me down and make me pay for Cal. What's different now? Did you suddenly develop a conscience, or did someone else beat you to the revenge party?"

Beau's claws dig slightly deeper into her ankles, piercing through denim to prick her skin. A low growl rumbles from his chest as his golden eyes flash with barely contained anger.

"That can wait," he says, each word precise and controlled despite the fury radiating from him. "Tommy attempted to frame us for something we didn't do. We never harmed those women, Lila. Never. We were just convenient targets for his crimes."

His grip tightens momentarily, claws threatening to break skin as his voice grows rougher. "You want to know the truth? Tommy's been doing this for years. Finding ways to pin his kills on other Wesen, other families. He picks targets who look right for the profile, plants evidence, manipulates witnesses. Makes sure the heat never falls on him."

Ray shifts above her, still woged but listening intently as his brother continues. The weight of his gaze burns into her, predatory and focused, but she forces herself to concentrate on Beau's words.

"The red necklaces, the victim descriptions, the timing—all of it was orchestrated to point at us. At Cal specifically." Beau's voice cracks slightly on his dead brother's name. "Tommy knew exactly how to make a Grimm see what he wanted her to see. How to make you believe we were the monsters you were hunting."

The truck cab feels suffocating, thick with tension and the musk of their transformed state. Through the windshield, Lila can see the distant glow of the truck stop's main building, normal people moving about their normal lives, completely unaware of the supernatural drama playing out in the parking lot's shadows.

"He played you, Lila," Beau continues, his voice softening just a fraction. "Just like he's played other hunters before. The difference is, you actually caught Cal alone. You actually pulled the trigger." His claws flex against her ankles, a reminder of how easily he could shred her. "Our brother died because Tommy Dale is very good at his job."

Slowly, deliberately, Beau releases her ankles and straightens up. He nods to Ray, a silent communication passing between the brothers. Ray's grip on her wrists loosens, though he doesn't immediately let go.

"We're letting you up," Beau says quietly, "because Tommy's still out there. Still hunting. And right now, you're the only one who might be able to stop him."

As Lila sits up slowly, rubbing feeling back into her wrists, Ray slides smoothly into the driver's seat while Beau claims the passenger side. She finds herself wedged between them in the middle of the bench seat, the truck suddenly feeling much smaller with all three of them inside.

"Finally got my truck back," Ray says with satisfaction, running his hands over the steering wheel like he's greeting an old friend. His features have shifted back to human, though his eyes still hold that predatory gleam. "Missed her almost as much as I missed chasing you, cher."

Beau shifts the rearview mirror to get a better view of the parking lot behind them. "We're going to take turns driving," he says matter-of-factly. "Moving non-stop until we reach New Orleans. No more sleeping in truck stops where anyone can find us."

Before Lila can protest, Beau wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her against his side. His body is warm and solid, still carrying the lingering musk of his transformation. "Sleep," he murmurs against her hair. "You look like hell."

Every rational part of her mind screams that this is insane. After everything—the running, losing Marie, the terror of Reapers hunting in Portland—she should be more paranoid than ever. These men have been hunting her across multiple states, have threatened her life, have every reason to want her dead. But her exhausted body seems to have reached some kind of breaking point where fear transforms into something else entirely.

Maybe it's the bone-deep weariness, or maybe it's the way Beau's arm feels protective rather than threatening, but something in her chooses to trust them. At least for now.

A yawn escapes her as the truck's engine rumbles to life beneath them. "This is fucking insane," she mutters against Beau's shoulder, her voice muffled by exhaustion.

Ray's laughter fills the cab, rich and genuinely amused as he pulls out of the parking lot and merges onto the darkened highway. "Oh, cher, you got that right. Completely batshit crazy." His eyes catch hers in the rearview mirror, sparkling with mischief. "But when has anything involving us ever been sane?"

Chapter Text

"Absolutely not," Lila says, staring at the boarding passes Ray holds out to her. They're standing in the departure area of LAX, surrounded by the controlled chaos of travelers and the constant drone of flight announcements. "I don't fly. Ever."

"Well, you're flying today, cher," Ray says with that lazy grin that makes her want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure. "Unless you want to spend the next three days driving while Tommy keeps hunting."

Beau shifts beside her, scanning the terminal with the practiced awareness of someone who's always expecting trouble. "We need to be in New Orleans yesterday. A missing Grimm doesn't stay missing forever—either we find him, or someone else finds his body."

Lila's hands clench into fists at her sides. She hates this—hates being rushed, hates not having her weapons within reach, hates the thought of being trapped in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground with nowhere to run if things go sideways.

"My trunk—"

"Already handled," Beau interrupts. "Professional movers picked it up from the truck an hour ago. It'll be waiting for us at the safe house." He meets her eyes, his expression serious. "This isn't the first time you've had to move fast, is it?"

He's right, and she knows it. There have been other hunts, other emergencies where time mattered more than comfort or protocol. She'd shipped her gear ahead and flown commercial, trusting that necessity sometimes trumped caution.

But this feels different. More dangerous. Like she's stepping into something she won't be able to control.

She glares at Ray and Beau, a sharp stab of regret twisting in her gut. She'd told them everything during the long drive from the truck stop—about Marie's death, about the Resistance calling her back, about the missing Grimm who'd gone dark in New Orleans. Information she never should have shared, vulnerabilities she never should have exposed.

"I'm starting to regret opening my mouth," she mutters, crossing her arms defensively.

Ray's expression softens slightly. "Hey now, cher. We told you our secrets too, remember?"

He's right. They had. During those tense hours on the road, the brothers had finally revealed the truth that had been eating at them—how all of Tommy's victims had one thing in common. Every single woman he'd killed had been someone Cal had flirted with, talked to, shown interest in at bars or clubs around the city.

"At first, we thought Cal was guilty," Beau says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of that admission. "Even after you killed him, even after the funeral, we believed our own brother was a monster. The evidence was that convincing."

Ray's jaw tightens, old pain flickering across his features. "Took us days of hunting you to start putting the real picture together. We were so focused on revenge, on making you pay, that we almost missed it entirely."

"Missed what?" Lila asks, though part of her already knows.

"The pattern," Beau explains. "Tommy wasn't just framing us randomly. He was specifically targeting women Cal had shown interest in. Making it look like our brother was stalking them, hunting them down after brief encounters."

Ray nods grimly. "Tommy would watch Cal at the bars, see who he talked to, who he bought drinks for. Then he'd follow those women, learn their routines, their habits. When he finally struck, all the evidence pointed back to the last man they'd been seen with—our brother."

The pieces click together in Lila's mind with sickening clarity. Tommy hadn't just been framing the Lejeune brothers in general—he'd been using Cal as the perfect patsy, exploiting his social nature and charm to create a trail of circumstantial evidence.

"That's why the survivors' descriptions were so accurate," she realizes aloud. "They really had met Cal. They really had talked to him, flirted with him. Tommy just made sure he was the last man they remembered seeing before the attacks."

"Exactly," Beau says. "By the time we figured it out, you were already halfway to Portland and we were chasing ghosts." He looks at her directly, something like respect in his dark eyes. "You were right about Tommy being the real monster. We just wish we'd figured it out before our brother died."

The weight of that admission sits heavy between them in the busy terminal. Around them, families say goodbye, business travelers check their phones, life continues its normal rhythm while they stand in the center of a revelation that changes everything.

"So now what?" Lila asks, her anger fading into something more complex—understanding, maybe, or shared purpose.

Ray holds up the boarding passes again, but his usual cocky grin is replaced by something more serious. "Now we finish what Tommy started. We find your missing Grimm, we stop Tommy from killing anyone else, and we make sure the bastard pays for what he did to Cal."

Lila glares at the boarding passes, then shifts her glare to the brothers themselves. Without her weapons, without her Grimm trunk, she feels exposed in a way that makes her skin crawl. Every instinct screams against this plan—getting on a plane defenseless, trusting movers with her most precious possessions, flying into what could very well be a trap.

"I hate all of this," she mutters under her breath, her hands unconsciously moving to where her knives should be. The absence of familiar weight at her hip and ankle makes her feel naked, vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with clothing.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Half a day later, the humid New Orleans air hits them like a wall as they step off the plane at Louis Armstrong International Airport. The familiar scent of the city—magnolia, river water, and something indefinably wild—fills Lila's lungs as they make their way through the terminal. Despite everything, despite the danger waiting for them, there's something about being back that feels like coming home.

The brothers take the lead, Ray hailing a taxi with the easy confidence of someone on familiar ground. This is their territory, their city, and for the first time Lila is seeing where they actually live rather than chasing them through back alleys and underground fighting rings.

The taxi winds through the French Quarter, past familiar streets and landmarks that bring back memories of her first hunt here. Twenty minutes later, they pull up in front of a restored Creole cottage in the Bywater district—painted a warm yellow with dark green shutters, a wide front porch, and the kind of character that only comes with age.

"Home sweet home," Ray says, paying the driver as Beau shoulders their travel bags.

Lila follows them up the front steps, noting the heavy security—reinforced door, multiple locks, windows that look decorative but are probably bulletproof. The house of people who know they have enemies.

Once inside, the tension that's been building between them for days finally reaches its breaking point. Ray closes the door behind them, and suddenly they're all looking at each other in the dim hallway, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy in the air.

Beau drops the bags, his eyes never leaving Lila's face. "We're home," he says quietly, but there's something deeper in his voice—relief, want, a promise of things they've been denying themselves.

Ray steps closer, his usual cocky grin replaced by something raw and honest. "No more running. No more chasing." His hand reaches out to cup her cheek. "Just us."

The first kiss is gentle, tentative—Ray's lips soft against hers, testing, asking permission. When she responds, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, something breaks loose between all three of them.

Beau moves in, his hands finding her waist, pulling her back against his solid frame as Ray deepens the kiss. The hallway becomes a tangle of urgent touches, whispered gasps, and the rustle of clothing hitting the floor. Lila's fingers trace the hard lines of Beau's chest, feeling the heat of his skin, while Ray's mouth moves to her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. The air grows thick with need, each movement deliberate yet desperate, as if they're all trying to outrun the shadows of their past.

They stumble toward the stairs, shedding layers with every step, a trail of shirts and belts marking their path. In the master bedroom, Ray lifts Lila onto the bed, his hands rough but reverent as they grip her hips, pinning her against the soft sheets. Beau’s fingers skim her inner thighs, parting them with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through her core. Their touches are a study in contrast—Ray’s bold, possessive, claiming her with every rough caress; Beau’s measured, intense, teasing her with featherlight strokes that promise more.

Lila’s hands move with purpose, tugging Ray’s jeans down to reveal the hard length of him, her fingers curling around his arousal with a boldness that draws a low, guttural groan from his throat. She turns to Beau, her nails grazing the taut muscle of his abdomen as she frees him from his pants, feeling the heat and weight of him against her palm. The room pulses with their shared hunger—sharp breaths, the creak of the bed, the low hum of desire that binds them.

Ray’s mouth crashes against hers, hungry and unrelenting, his tongue exploring with a ferocity that leaves her gasping. He pulls back just enough to murmur against her lips, “You’re ours, cher,” before his hands slide beneath her, lifting her hips to meet his. He enters her in one smooth, powerful thrust, filling her completely, the sensation overwhelming as she arches into him, her nails digging into his shoulders.

Beau’s hands guide her thighs wider, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck as he positions himself behind her. His touch is slower, more deliberate, but no less commanding. He presses himself against her, teasing her entrance with a slow, torturous slide before easing inside, stretching her in a way that makes her moan, loud and unfiltered. The dual sensation—Ray’s relentless rhythm and Beau’s steady, deep thrusts—sends her spiraling, her body caught in a storm of pleasure.

Their movements sync, a primal dance of give and take. Ray’s hands grip her hips, his thrusts growing faster, harder, each one driving her closer to the edge. Beau’s fingers find her most sensitive spot, circling with expert precision, amplifying every sensation until she’s trembling between them, her moans turning to cries. The room fills with the sounds of their union—skin against skin, ragged breaths, Ray’s low growls mingling with Beau’s murmured encouragements.

Lila loses herself in the rhythm, her body responding to every touch, every thrust, every whispered word. She clutches at them both, her fingers tangled in Ray’s hair, her other hand gripping Beau’s arm as she rides the crest of pleasure. The tension builds, coiling tight in her core until it snaps, her climax crashing over her like a wave, pulling desperate, shuddering gasps from her lips. Ray follows soon after, his release a low, primal groan as he buries himself deep, while Beau’s measured control breaks, his final thrusts drawing a ragged moan as he finds his own release.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Later, much later, Lila lies tangled between them in the master bedroom, her head on Beau’s chest while Ray’s arm circles her waist. The afternoon light filters through gauze curtains, painting everything in golden warmth. Her body hums with the afterglow, every nerve still alive with the memory of their hands, their mouths, the way they claimed her and let her claim them in return. For the first time in weeks, she feels truly at peace, anchored by the steady rise and fall of Beau’s breathing and the possessive curl of Ray’s fingers against her skin.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

The shrill ring of her phone cuts through the drowsy haze of sleep. Lila opens her eyes to find Beau leaning over her, phone in hand, his bare chest catching the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. They're all still naked, limbs tangled together in the wreckage of sheets and satisfaction.

"Your phone," Beau murmurs, pressing the device into her palm. "Sounds important."

She checks the caller ID and her stomach drops. "Meisner," she says quietly, then swipes to answer. "Yeah?"

"Report." Meisner's voice is crisp, businesslike, cutting straight through any pleasantries.

Lila sits up carefully, trying not to disturb Ray who's still half-asleep against her side. "I just arrived in New Orleans a few hours ago. I'm getting situated and—"

"Jack Morrison's last report was four days ago," Meisner interrupts. "He was investigating a pattern of murders in the French Quarter. Blutbad involvement suspected."

She exchanges a look with Beau, whose expression has gone sharp and alert at the mention of a Blutbad. "What kind of pattern?"

"I'm emailing you his case files and all relevant information now," Meisner states. "I expect a full report within twenty-four hours. Find Morrison, or find out what happened to him. Understood?"

"Understood, but—"

The line goes dead before she can ask any more questions. Lila stares at the phone, dread settling in her stomach like lead.

Beau leans in and presses a soft kiss to her lips, his voice warm against her mouth. "Sounds like you have to get to work."

She kisses him back, savoring the moment of tenderness before reality crashes back in. Then she pushes gently against his chest and swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I need a shower. Need to clear my head before I dive into finding Jack. I sent him to deal with Tommy because I couldn't."

She pads naked toward the ensuite bathroom, feeling Beau's eyes following her movement. The shower hisses to life under her touch, steam beginning to fog the mirror as she steps under the hot spray.

She's barely had time to wet her hair when she hears the bathroom door open and feels familiar hands sliding around her waist from behind.

"Mind if I join you?" Beau's voice is low and amused as he steps into the shower behind her, his body warm and solid against her back.

Lila turns to face him, water cascading over her shoulders, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Only if you make it quick," she teases, but the heat in her eyes betrays her.

Beau’s hands slide up her sides, his fingers tracing the curve of her ribs before cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, already hardened under the warm spray. He dips his head, his lips closing around one sensitive peak, sucking gently as his tongue flicks against her, drawing a sharp gasp from her throat. The sensation sends a jolt straight to her core, her hands finding his shoulders for balance as she arches into his touch.

"You’re trouble," she murmurs, her voice husky as his mouth moves to her other breast, lavishing it with the same slow, deliberate attention. His teeth graze her lightly, just enough to make her moan, her fingers digging into his skin.

Beau chuckles against her, the vibration sending shivers down her spine. "You love trouble," he says, lifting his head to capture her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hands slide down to her hips, pulling her flush against him, his arousal pressing hard against her thigh.

With a swift, fluid motion, he lifts her, pinning her against the slick tile wall, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his body. Lila wraps her legs around his waist, her arms looping around his neck as she feels him nudge against her entrance. The water makes everything slick, amplifying every sensation as he teases her, sliding against her without entering, drawing out a frustrated whimper.

"Beau," she growls, her nails scraping down his back, urging him on.

He doesn’t make her wait long. With a low groan, he thrusts into her, filling her in one deep, powerful stroke. The stretch is exquisite, her body adjusting to him as he sets a steady, relentless rhythm, each movement driving her higher. The shower’s spray mingles with their gasps, the steam wrapping them in a haze of heat and desire. Lila clings to him, her hips meeting his thrusts, the friction building a delicious pressure that threatens to unravel her.

His hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as he angles himself to hit that perfect spot inside her, making her cry out, her voice echoing off the tiles. Beau’s mouth finds her neck, kissing and nipping as he rides her, his pace quickening as their shared need spirals. Her fingers tangle in his wet hair, pulling him closer as she feels the tension coil tighter, her body trembling on the edge.

"Come for me, Lila," he murmurs against her skin, his voice rough with want, and it’s enough to push her over. Her climax hits hard, a wave of pleasure that leaves her gasping, her body clenching around him as she rides out the aftershocks. Beau follows moments later, his thrusts growing erratic as he buries himself deep, his release a low, primal groan that vibrates through her.

They stay like that for a moment, panting, the water washing away the evidence of their urgency as they catch their breath. Beau gently lowers her, keeping his arms around her as her legs steady, his lips brushing her forehead in a tender contrast to the intensity of moments before.

"Feeling clearer now?" he asks with a crooked grin, his eyes warm despite the teasing.

Lila laughs softly, still catching her breath. "Maybe a little too clear," she says, leaning into him for one last lingering kiss before they step out of the shower, ready to face the grim reality of the hunt ahead.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

They emerge from the bathroom to find Ray sitting up in bed, hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep. He grins at them both, taking in Beau's towel-wrapped waist and Lila already dressed in fresh jeans and a black tank top.

"Well, well," Ray drawls, voice rough with sleep. "Y'all sure know how to make a man feel left out."

Lila laughs, a genuine sound that fills the room with warmth. "Don't worry, you'll get your one-on-one time too," she says with a playful grin, earning a satisfied smirk from Ray and an amused shake of the head from Beau.

Beau pulls on jeans and a button-down while Lila checks her phone, scrolling through the emails Meisner sent. Her expression grows more serious as she reads, noting locations, dates, and the pattern of Jack's investigation.

"Last known location was the French Quarter," she says, looking up from the screen. "He was tracking Tommy's movements, trying to establish a timeline." She pockets the phone and looks at both brothers. "I'm starving. Let's grab something to eat while we plan our next move."

Chapter Text

"Well, hello there, Lila."

Before she can react, Tommy's hand shoots out and snatches the phone from her grip. She hears Ray's voice, tinny and distant, calling her name urgently. Tommy grins at her. That same charming smile that once made her feel safe. And he ends the call with a casual swipe of his thumb.

"Rude to hang up on people," he says pleasantly, pocketing her phone. "But I thought we should have a private conversation."

Lila takes a step back, her hand instinctively reaching for weapons that aren't there. "Tommy." Her voice stays steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system. "Still playing cop, or have you moved on to full-time serial killer?"

His laugh is warm, genuine, the same sound that used to make her pulse quicken for entirely different reasons. "Always so direct. That's what I liked about you, Lila. No games, no pretense." His eyes grow colder. "Well, except for the part where you were hunting my scapegoats."

She shifts her weight, calculating distances to potential exits. The street is busy enough that screaming might bring help, but Tommy's positioning himself to block her most obvious escape routes. "Where's Jack Morrison?"

"Your replacement Grimm? Safe and sound." Tommy's smile widens. "For now."

Before Lila can respond, she senses movement behind her. Two figures, moving with practiced stealth. She starts to turn, but it's too late. Strong arms wrap around her from behind while a cloth presses over her nose and mouth. The sickly sweet smell of chloroform fills her nostrils.

She struggles, trying to break free, but the second attacker helps restrain her. Her vision blurs as the chemical takes effect, Tommy's satisfied face the last thing she sees before darkness claims her.

"Sweet dreams, darlin'," she hears him say as consciousness slips away.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Hours later, Lila wakes to the taste of cotton and blood in her mouth. Her head pounds as consciousness slowly returns, bringing with it the sharp awareness that everything has gone to hell. She's bound tight to a thick wooden beam, rope cutting into her wrists and ankles, a filthy rag tied around her mouth that makes breathing difficult.

The warehouse around her is massive and dimly lit, filled with shadows and the smell of rust and decay. Industrial fixtures hang from the ceiling like metal bones, and broken windows let in sickly yellow light from the streetlamps outside.

A groan to her left makes her turn her head, and her heart sinks. Jack Morrison is tied to the beam next to her, his face a mess of bruises and dried blood. One eye is swollen shut, his lip split, and dark stains cover his torn shirt. He's conscious but barely, his breathing shallow and labored.

In the distance, maybe thirty feet away, Tommy stands casually with two figures that make Lila's blood turn to ice. Both wear business suits and carry the unmistakable curved blades that haunt every Grimm's nightmares. Reapers. The scythes gleam dully in the warehouse lighting as they gesture, their voices too low to make out but their intentions crystal clear.

Tommy has allied himself with the very organization that exists to exterminate Grimms. And now both she and Jack are trapped, helpless, waiting for whatever twisted plan he's concocted.

Lila mentally curses herself for every stupid decision that led to this moment. No weapons, no backup plan, walking alone into what was obviously a trap. Marie would be ashamed of her recklessness. Hell, she's ashamed of her own recklessness.

She tests the ropes carefully, trying to find any give or weakness in the knots. But whoever tied them knew what they were doing. The bindings are professional grade, tight enough to cut off circulation but positioned so she can't reach any loose ends. Every slight movement only makes the rope bite deeper into her wrists.

After a few minutes of subtle struggling, her shifting must catch Tommy's attention. He glances over from his conversation with the Reapers, his face lighting up with that same charming smile that once fooled her completely.

"Well, look who's finally awake," he calls out, excusing himself from the suited figures and strolling toward her with casual confidence. "How's the head, darlin'? Sorry about the chloroform, but you always were a fighter."

The two Reapers remain where they are, heads bent together in quiet conversation, occasionally glancing toward the bound Grimms but seemingly content to let Tommy handle the interrogation for now.

When Tommy reaches her, his face begins to shift. Bone cracks and reshapes as his jaw extends, red fur sprouting along his cheekbones as his eyes turn a burning crimson. The transformation is more controlled than she's ever seen from him, deliberate and intimidating rather than the wild changes she's witnessed in other Wesen.

He leans in close, close enough that she can feel his breath hot against her face, and inhales deeply. His woged features twist into a expression of disgust and disappointment.

"You smell like them," he growls, his voice rougher now, distorted by his shifted vocal cords. "Like Balam. Like those fucking cats." His clawed hand reaches out to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his blazing red eyes. The touch is almost gentle, a mockery of the intimacy they once shared. "I'm so disappointed in you, Lila. I really thought you were smarter than that."

She tries to pull away, but his grip tightens, claws pricking her skin just enough to draw tiny beads of blood.

"You have no idea how much work this has been," Tommy continues, his thumb stroking along her jawline in a parody of tenderness. "The careful planning, the evidence placement, making sure every piece fell into place exactly right." His eyes narrow, pupils dilated with predatory satisfaction. "The deal was simple. I give the Reapers the Grimm in Portland." He jerks his head toward Jack without breaking eye contact with her. "And this one here. Two for the price of one."

His face moves closer until they're almost nose to nose, his transformed features terrifying in their proximity. "But then you had to go and complicate things, didn't you? Running off with my targets, letting them mark you like some kind of pet." The disgust in his voice is palpable. "Do you have any idea what you've cost me?"

Lila can only glare at him over the gag, fury burning in her chest at his casual admission of the lives he's destroyed, the elaborate web of lies he's spun. This close, she can see the satisfaction in his red eyes, the pleasure he takes in having her completely at his mercy.

A question flashes through her mind. How could he have possibly known where Marie was? She'd been so careful about keeping that information private, never mentioning Portland in his presence.

Tommy's grin widens as if he can read her thoughts. "I can see those wheels turning, darlin'. Wondering how I found your precious mentor?" His clawed thumb traces her cheek in a mockery of affection. "You're so trusting when it comes to people you sleep with. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you leaving your laptop open? All those encrypted files, all those careful communications."

Her blood turns to ice as the implications sink in. He'd been in her motel room, in her bed, going through her most private information while she slept beside him.

"Hacking your system was child's play," Tommy continues, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. "And once I had access to your contacts, well... 'M' was pretty obviously another Grimm. Took me less than an hour to figure out it was the one and only Marie Kessler." His red eyes gleam with malicious delight. "I couldn't believe my luck. The most famous Grimm hunter in North America, and I had her location handed to me on a silver platter."

He leans back slightly, savoring her obvious distress. "The Royals were very pleased with that information. Very pleased indeed." His smile turns absolutely vicious. "They handled her personally. Made sure she suffered before the end."

Lila's world tilts. Royals? Who the hell were the Royals? The term means nothing to her, but Tommy speaks of them like they're some kind of authority figure, powerful enough to order the assassination of legendary Grimms. Her mind races, trying to piece together this new layer of conspiracy while grief and rage war in her chest over Marie's death.

The tears come before she can stop them, hot and bitter as they stream down her cheeks. The weight of guilt crashes over her like a tidal wave. The Reapers had been hunting Marie for over a year. That's why they'd split up, why Marie had insisted they work separately. She'd thought the heat had died down, thought Marie had lost them in the shadows of the hunting world.

But it was her fault. Her recklessness, her need for human connection, her weakness for sleeping with someone she should have kept at arm's length. If she hadn't been so careless with her laptop, so trusting with her most precious secrets, Marie would still be alive. The woman who raised her, who taught her everything, who loved her like a daughter, was dead because Lila couldn't keep her legs closed or her guard up.

Tommy watches her tears with obvious delight, his red eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. "Oh, that's beautiful," he purrs, his voice thick with mock sympathy. "Look at those pretty tears. You're finally understanding, aren't you? Understanding what you cost her."

Before she can pull away, his long tongue darts out and licks a tear from her cheek, the gesture so violating and intimate that revulsion courses through her entire body. He savors the taste like fine wine, his woged features twisting into an expression of pure satisfaction.

"Guilt tastes even better than fear," he whispers against her ear. "And you, darlin', you're drowning in it."

A weak voice cuts through Tommy's taunting. "Get away from her, you sick fuck."

Jack has regained consciousness, his battered face twisted with pain and fury as he struggles against his own bindings. His words are slurred from his swollen lip, but the defiance in his voice is unmistakable.

Tommy finally releases Lila's chin and steps back, his red eyes shifting to Jack with annoyance. "Well, well. The hero awakens." Without warning, his clawed fist connects with Jack's already bruised face, snapping his head back against the beam with a sickening crack.

"No!" Lila struggles frantically against her ropes, the bindings cutting deeper into her wrists as she tries to reach Jack, to help him somehow.

Before Tommy can strike again, both Reapers approach with measured steps, their expressions coldly professional. The taller one places a firm hand on Tommy's shoulder, pushing him away from Jack with quiet authority.

"Enough," the Reaper says simply. "Business first."

Neither Reaper acknowledges the prisoners directly. The shorter one pulls out a sleek phone and begins taking photographs. First Jack, then Lila, multiple angles, like they're documenting evidence for a case file. The camera flashes illuminate their bruised and bound forms in stark detail.

Meanwhile, the taller Reaper speed-dials a number and waits for an answer. When the call connects, his voice is crisp and businesslike, as if discussing a routine transaction.

"Confirmation of assets. We have both targets in custody." A pause as he listens. "Morrison, Jack. Age thirty-two. Chicago operative. Condition... functional." His cold eyes assess Jack's beaten form. "Second target: Boudreaux, Delilah. Portland connection confirmed. Both are secured and ready for immediate execution on-site."

Tommy's woged features twist with anger. "Wait just a goddamn minute." He steps toward the Reaper, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Lila was promised to me. That was the deal. I deliver the Grimms, I get to handle her personally."

The Reaper covers the phone's mouthpiece, fixing Tommy with a stare that could freeze blood. "Plans change. The Royals want this clean and quick."

"Fuck the Royals," Tommy snarls. "I've been working toward this for months. She killed my scapegoats, ruined my hunting ground, cost me everything. I earned the right to make her suffer."

The tension in the warehouse ratchets higher as Tommy faces off against the suited killers, while Lila and Jack hang helpless between them, their lives being negotiated like commodities in a business deal.

The shorter Reaper's face begins to shift, features becoming sharper and more predatory as he woges. Without breaking eye contact with Tommy, he draws a sleek pistol from inside his suit jacket and aims it directly at the Blutbad's chest.

"Stand down," he says quietly, his transformed voice carrying lethal authority.

Meanwhile, the taller Reaper continues his phone conversation, apparently receiving new instructions. "Understood. Morrison is confirmed Resistance Grimm operative. High priority target." He glances at Lila with cold assessment. "Boudreaux... negative confirmation on Resistance affiliation. Standard Grimm classification only."

A pause as he listens to the voice on the other end, then nods. "Copy that. Revised orders received."

He ends the call and turns to Tommy, whose red eyes are fixed warily on the gun pointed at him. "Compromise reached. You may proceed with the Boudreaux woman as agreed. However, we must remain to witness the execution. Direct orders from the Royals."

Tommy's woged features break into a savage grin, the threat of the weapon seemingly forgotten in his excitement. "Well, well. Never had an audience before." He laughs, a sound full of dark anticipation. "This should be fun. Always wondered what it would be like to have witnesses to my work."

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

An hour later, Lila's world has shrunk to nothing but pain. Every inch of her body screams in agony, testament to Tommy's methodical cruelty. Her face is a mess of bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut, and a deep cut runs from her split lips down to her chin, blood still seeping from the wound. The metallic taste fills her mouth, mixing with the bile of fear and revulsion.

Her left hand throbs where her pinky finger used to be. Tommy had taken his time with that particular torture, using his claws to slowly separate it from her hand while she screamed against her gag. The makeshift bandage he'd wrapped around the wound was already soaked through, more mockery than mercy.

Claw marks rake across her ribs and down her belly in parallel lines, some shallow, others deep enough to scar if she lives long enough to heal. Her right leg bears similar marks, shredded fabric mixing with torn skin. But it's the bite marks on both shoulders that hurt the most. Deep puncture wounds from his fangs, the kind that would mark her as his victim even in death.

Her entire body trembles uncontrollably, shock and pain and blood loss combining to leave her barely conscious. Each shallow breath sends fire through her broken ribs, and she can taste blood in the back of her throat.

Through her good eye, she looks over at Jack's still form. The Reapers had executed him efficiently once Tommy started on her, a single shot to the head. Professional. Clean. Nothing like the prolonged agony they were allowing Tommy to inflict on her. Jack's dead eyes stare at nothing, his battered face finally peaceful after hours of suffering.

Soon, she knows, she'll be hanging lifeless beside him. The thought should terrify her, but all she feels is a strange sense of relief. At least the pain will stop. At least Tommy won't get to break her completely.

The Reapers watch with detached interest, occasionally taking notes on their phones, documenting Tommy's methods like researchers observing an experiment. They show no emotion, no disgust at the torture, no pity for her suffering. Just cold professionalism as they witness her destruction.

Tommy steps back to admire his work, his red eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Blood drips from his claws as he surveys the damage he's inflicted, and Lila knows from his expression that he's just getting started.

He moves closer, close enough that she can smell the musk of his transformation mixed with the metallic scent of her own blood. His rough tongue darts out to lick the blood from her split lips, the gesture both intimate and revolting. She tries to turn her head away, but he grabs her chin, holding her still.

"I want to hear that pretty voice of yours," he murmurs, reaching behind her head to untie the filthy gag. The cloth falls away, and Lila works her jaw carefully, wincing at the pain from her split lip.

When she finally speaks, her voice is hoarse and weak, but the defiance burns clear. "Coward."

Tommy's eyebrows raise in amusement. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She meets his red eyes with her own blazing green ones, refusing to look away despite the agony wracking her body. "You're a fucking coward. Too weak to fight a Grimm head-on, so you torture a bound one instead."

His expression darkens, but she continues, her voice growing stronger despite the blood in her throat. "I took you for a jealous fool, Tommy, but I never took you for a weakling. Guess I was wrong about that too."

Instead of the rage she expects, Tommy throws back his head and laughs. The sound echoes off the warehouse walls, genuine and delighted. "There she is! There's that fire I fell for." His red eyes shine with twisted admiration. "You know what, darlin'? You're right. This isn't fair at all."

Before the Reapers can object, Tommy begins cutting through her restraints with his claws, starting with the ropes around her wrists.

"What are you doing?" the taller Reaper demands, stepping forward with alarm.

"Fuck off," Tommy snarls without looking back. "You want to watch? Then watch. But I'm giving my girl a fighting chance."

"This wasn't the agreement," the shorter Reaper says, his hand moving toward his weapon.

"The agreement was you get to witness her death," Tommy replies, sawing through the ropes around her ankles. "Doesn't say anything about how it happens."

The moment her hands are free, Lila doesn't hesitate. Ignoring the screaming pain in her body, she drives her forehead straight into Tommy's face with every ounce of strength she has left. The impact sends a shockwave of agony through her skull, but the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking makes it worth it.

Tommy staggers backward, blood streaming from his shattered nose, his woged features twisting in shock and pain. "You fucking bitch!"

The shorter Reaper immediately draws his weapon, aiming it directly at Lila. "Enough games. She dies now."

"Like hell she does!" Tommy roars, his rage redirecting toward the Reapers. "Nobody kills her but me!"

He launches himself at the armed Reaper with inhuman speed, claws extended. The two crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and violence, the gun skittering across the concrete floor.

Every instinct screams at Lila to run, to get out while she has the chance. But then she sees the second Reaper reaching for his scythe, and all she can think about is Marie. These bastards killed the woman who raised her, the only family she'd ever known. They made her suffer before the end.

Fuck running.

Lila lunges for the fallen scythe before the taller Reaper can retrieve it, her injured hand screaming in protest as she grips the curved handle. The weapon is heavier than she expected, perfectly balanced and razor-sharp, designed for one purpose only.

The Reaper tries to grab it back, but Lila swings with desperate fury, the blade catching him across the chest and opening a deep gash through his expensive suit. He stumbles backward, his own face beginning to shift as he woges in response to the attack.

For the first time in her life, Lila finds herself fighting alongside a Wesen instead of against one, united with Tommy in their mutual hatred of the suited killers who thought they could control them both.

The taller Reaper's transformation is swift and terrifying. His face elongates into something predatory and inhuman, teeth sharpening to points as his suit stretches over an expanding frame. He moves with lethal grace, trying to circle around Lila to reclaim his weapon.

But Lila is beyond pain now, beyond fear. Adrenaline and rage fuel her battered body as she swings the scythe in wide arcs, keeping him at bay. The blade whistles through the air, and she can feel its deadly potential in every movement. These are the monsters who sent the Reapers after Marie, who butchered the woman who raised her.

The Reaper feints left, then lunges right, trying to get inside her guard. Lila pivots despite the agony in her leg, bringing the scythe around in a vicious horizontal slash. The blade catches him across the throat, opening his jugular in a spray of dark blood. He drops to his knees, hands clutching uselessly at the mortal wound, his transformed face frozen in shock.

"That's for Marie, you bastard," Lila gasps, watching him collapse.

Meanwhile, Tommy is locked in brutal combat with the other Reaper near the fallen gun. Both are fully woged now, a wolf against something that looks like a cross between a bird of prey and a nightmare. Claws rake flesh, teeth snap for throats, and they roll across the concrete in a deadly embrace.

The Reaper manages to pin Tommy, razor-sharp talons pressing toward his throat. Tommy's strength is fading, blood loss from multiple wounds taking its toll.

Without hesitation, Lila raises the scythe above her head and brings it down with everything she has left. The blade bites deep into the Reaper's back, severing his spine in a single, decisive blow. He convulses once, then goes limp.

Tommy shoves the dead weight off him and immediately lunges at Lila, his red eyes blazing with renewed fury. The brief alliance shattered the instant their common enemies fell. There's no gratitude in his woged features, no acknowledgment that she just saved his life. Only the hunger of a predator who's been denied his kill for too long.

Lila barely gets the scythe up in time to block his claws as they rake toward her throat. The impact sends shockwaves of pain through her injured body, but adrenaline keeps her moving. This is it. No more games, no more torture. Just a fight to the death between a Grimm and the monster who destroyed everything she loved.

Suddenly, a massive form crashes into Tommy from the side, sending the Blutbad flying across the warehouse floor. Beau, fully woged and radiating lethal fury, positions himself between Tommy and Lila like a golden wall of claws and fangs.

Before Lila can process what's happening, strong arms wrap around her waist and pull her back from the fight. Ray's familiar scent fills her nostrils as he drags her to safety, his voice rough with concern.

Before Lila can process what's happening, strong arms wrap around her waist and pull her back from the fight. Ray's familiar scent fills her nostrils as he drags her to safety, his voice rough with concern.

"Jesus Christ, cher, what did he do to you?" Ray's hands hover over her injuries, afraid to touch but desperate to help. "We're getting you out of here."

"No," Lila gasps, struggling against his hold despite the agony it causes. "I have to end this."

Across the warehouse, Beau and Tommy crash into each other with bone-jarring force, both fully woged, claws and fangs gleaming in the dim light. They're evenly matched in size and fury, rolling across the concrete in a deadly embrace of teeth and violence.

"Lila, you can barely stand," Ray pleads, trying to keep her from rejoining the fight. "Let us handle this. Let Beau finish him."

But she grips the scythe tighter, using it to support her weight as she pushes away from Ray's protective arms. "This is my fight. He is the reason Marie is dead. He tortured Jack. He destroyed everything." Her voice grows stronger with each word. "And Beau needs help."

She limps back toward the battle, ignoring Ray's protests. Tommy catches sight of her movement and roars with desperate hunger.

"Lila!" Tommy snarls, even as Beau's claws rake across his ribs. "You belong to me! You've always belonged to me!"

His obsession gives Beau an opening, but Tommy's focus remains fixed on Lila, his red eyes burning with possessive madness even as he fights for his life.

Ray sees the tactical advantage immediately. "Fine," he growls, his own transformation beginning. "But we do this together." Golden fur erupts along his arms as he joins the fight, flanking Tommy from the opposite side.

The warehouse becomes a battlefield of claws and fury. Tommy is powerful, but his obsession with reaching Lila makes him reckless. Every few seconds, he breaks away from the brothers to lunge toward her, only to be dragged back into the fight by Beau or Ray.

"She's mine!" Tommy roars, landing a vicious swipe across Beau's chest that sends him staggering. "I marked her first! I had her first!"

Ray takes advantage of Tommy's distraction, raking his claws down the Blutbad's back, but Tommy spins with inhuman speed and catches Ray across the jaw with a backhand that sends him sprawling.

"You think you can take her from me?" Tommy snarls at the brothers, blood streaming from multiple wounds. "She'll always come back to me! She can't resist!"

But his fixation on Lila is his downfall. As he breaks free once more and charges toward her, leaving his back exposed to the brothers, Lila sees her opening. She raises the scythe, every muscle in her broken body screaming, and steps directly into his path.

"You're right," she says quietly, meeting his red eyes one last time. "I can't resist."

The scythe blade slides between his ribs with surgical precision, piercing his heart. Tommy's momentum carries him forward, impaling himself deeper on the weapon, his face inches from hers. His eyes widen in shock, then dim as the life drains out of them.

"But not the way you think," Lila whispers as Tommy Dale collapses at her feet, finally and forever silenced.

The warehouse falls quiet except for the sound of three hearts beating and the distant wail of sirens in the New Orleans night.

⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘ ❀ ⚘

Moments later, Beau carries Lila out of the warehouse, her broken body cradled carefully in his arms. The scythe lies abandoned in Tommy's chest, its work finally done. Ray limps beside them, favoring his left leg where Tommy's claws had found their mark, but his eyes never leave Lila's pale face.

The moment they emerge into the humid New Orleans night, they're instantly surrounded. Tactical gear, assault rifles, and red laser sights paint them in deadly dots of light. At least a dozen figures in black emerge from the shadows, moving with military precision.

"Easy," a woman's voice calls out, and the weapons lower slightly. She steps forward from the group, removing her tactical helmet to reveal short, curly brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. "I'm Kelly Burkhardt, Resistance."

Lila manages to lift her head from Beau's chest, her voice barely above a whisper. "Delilah Boudreaux. Grimm." She gestures weakly toward the brothers. "Beau and Ray Lejeune. They're with me."

Kelly's expression doesn't change, but there's recognition in her eyes as she studies the unlikely trio. "I know who you are," she says simply, her gaze taking in Lila's horrific injuries and the brothers' protective stance. "All of you."

Lila struggles to speak, each word costing her precious energy. "Jack's body is inside. Along with two Reapers and a Blutbad." Her voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry about Jack. He was trying to help me."

Kelly nods grimly, then signals to her team. They move past the group with practiced efficiency, disappearing into the warehouse to secure the scene and recover Jack's remains.

"I want to join the Resistance," Lila says suddenly, her green eyes blazing with determination despite her broken state. "The Royals are behind Marie's death. I want to make them pay."

Kelly's composure falters for just a moment, surprise flickering across her features. "Marie's dead?"

The weight of that loss settles between them in the humid night air. Kelly clears her throat, her voice taking on a formal tone that can't quite hide the grief underneath.

"Welcome to the Resistance."