I don’t tell her I already sent the photo from the surveillance footage to my contact at the docks. I don’t tell her that by sunrise, I’ll have every detail on her brother—real or not. I’ll know where he works. Where he sleeps. What he fears.
If he’s clean, I’ll scare him.
If he’s not, I’ll bury him.
Because I don’t share.
But just as I lower my hand again, brushing the hem of her shirt?—
My phone buzzes.
I snarl, pulling back, one hand still on her throat as I check the screen.
Unknown number. No name. No ID. Just coordinates.
And a single sentence:
She’s not just yours, Damien. I touched her first.
The world narrows to a pinpoint.
Raven stiffens beneath me.
Because she sees it in my face.
I’ve gone still.
Not quiet. Not calm.
Frozen.
Like a wire pulled taut and seconds from snapping.
I lower the phone slowly, my hand shaking—a thing I swore I’d never do.
And then I look at her.
Really look.
She’s watching me like she knows the storm’s about to break.
Like she knows someone else has stepped onto my game board and tipped over the queen.
“Who sent this?” I ask, voice barely audible.
She shakes her head, terrified. “I don’t know what that is.”
I believe her.
Which is worse.
Because someone sent this on purpose.
Not to warn me.
To provoke me.
To let me know—I’m being watched.
