He approached Davish one last time, bending down to speak directly into his ear. “When you heal—ifyou heal—remember this: my rules aren’t suggestions. They’re commandments. Break them again, and I’ll take your hand. Break them a third time, and no one will ever find your body.”
He straightened, nodding to the guards. Davish’s pleading dissolved into incoherent sobs as Callum walked toward the door. He didn’t look back, didn’t flinch when the first scream pierced the air behind him.
Justice in the Heart was rarely clean.
The sound followed Callum up the stairs, growing fainter with each step until the club’s music drowned it out entirely.
His workers deserved protection. Safety. The ability to earn their living without fear of men who thought a Heart address made them untouchable. If that protection came at the cost of blood on concrete and fingers in boxes, so be it.
The music hit him first as he pushed open his office door—not the club’s pounding bass but something classical floating from the speakers he’d forgotten he owned. Lira stood with her back to him, silhouetted against the glass wall that looked down onto the main floor, her body held in perfect stillness that only years of Heart training could produce. She’d traded her usual formal attire for training gear—fitted black pants and a sleeveless top that revealed lean muscle she’d built over months of sessions he’d apparently forgotten about tonight.
“Shit,” Callum muttered, closing the door behind him.
Lira turned, one eyebrow arched behind her rose gold mask. “Eloquent as always.”
“Sorry I’m late, Li.” He moved to his desk, avoiding her gaze. The office still smelled faintly of the cigarettes he’d quit smoking three months ago, though he kept a pack in the top drawer for nights when the walls felt suffocating. “Got held up with business.”
Her eyes dropped to his hands, catching on his reddened knuckles that were starting to swell.
“Who crossed you this time?” she asked with the kind of directness that only came from years of knowing his patterns.
Callum considered lying, then dismissed the thought. Lira could read him better than anyone, even Greyson. It was one of the things that made her dangerous to be around. Made her dangerous forhimto be around. Not because she would share his secrets, but because he couldn’t hide from her.
“Some distribution council functionary thought he could force himself on one of my girls.” He moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey. “Marina. You’ve met her—the redhead who runs the upper floor.”
“Is she all right?”
“She will be.” The whiskey burned down his throat, washing away the metallic taste that always lingered after violence. “Three broken ribs, bruised windpipe. Nothing that won’t heal physically. Mentally . . .” Callum’s words trailed off.
“And the functionary?”
Callum poured a second glass, offering it to her. She took it but immediately set it back on the cart. “Next time he’ll think twice.”
Lira knew what Callum was in some ways, knew the intricacies of his world and the brutality that filled the dark corners of his life. But he always spared her the details, kept her at arm’s length from the blood that was on his hands. She could handle it, he had no doubt of that, hejust didn’t want her to have to. She saw enough pain, enough violence in her own life, she didn’t need to carry the weight of his too.
She took a step closer, close enough that he could smell the subtle scent she wore—something clean and expensive that reminded him of spring and Callum steeled himself as the palm of her hand found his chest. Her fingers ran over his collar as her eyes dragged up to his. Her presence had always overwhelmed him, an electric current—a magnetic pull that refused to release him.
He drew in a measured breath, trying to steady his heartbeat, trying to calm his pulse so she couldn’t feel it against her skin.
“Please be careful, Callie,” Lira whispered, her hand finding the side of his masked face and cupping his cheek.
He hated the nickname, but coming from her lips—she could call him anything.
Her touch sent a shiver through him, warmth dancing across his skin. He knew he shouldn’t let her get this close, shouldn’t allow himself these moments of weakness. But when it came to Lira, his restraint always crumbled.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry despite the whiskey. “I’m always careful,” he murmured, the words unconvincing even to his own ears.
Lira’s thumb brushed over his cheekbone, tracing the edge of his mask. “Liar.” There was no accusation in her tone, just a soft sadness that made his chest ache.
Callum fought the urge to lean into her touch, to close his eyes and let himself forget, just for a moment, who she was. Who he was, and the line he wasn’t allowed to cross.
He stepped back, letting her hand fall away. The loss of contact felt like a hollow space opening behind his ribs. “We should get started. Your brother will have my head if he thinks I’m slacking on your lessons.”
Lira let out a soft sigh but didn’t push. She knew him too well, knew when to let him retreat behind his walls. “You need to talk to him, Callie. He’s not okay.”
“I know,” he said, setting his glass down and shrugging out of his suit jacket. He draped it over the back of his chair then began rolling up his sleeves. “I tried to see him in the hospital, but they wouldn’t let me through because I’m not Veyra.”
Lira was pacing now in the center of his office. “He pulled his mask off for that . . . that woman.”
