Doran's mentioned them in passing—the men who handle problems that can't be solved with lawyers or money.
Liam Mackenzie's private army, some call them.
Standing here, in the dark, with this man's pale eyes pinning me in place, I understand why. "Do you have a name, Brotherhood man? Or should I just call you 'something like that'?"
His mouth curves.
Not quite a smile—more like the ghost of one, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. "RJ."
"RJ," I repeat, tasting the letters. "What's it short for?"
"Nothing that matters."
"Everything matters. Names especially." I tilt my head, studying him the way he's been studying me. "Let me guess. Robert James? Richard Joseph? Rory... something that starts with J?"
That ghost-smile again. Sharper this time. "You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm a curious person."
"Curiosity isn't always safe."
"Neither is lurking in the dark. And yet."
We stare at each other.
The night air feels electric, charged with something I can't name.
My skin is too tight.
My pulse is too fast.
I should walk away.
I should go back to the house, back to my sister, back to the safety of Greer's world.
Instead, I hold his gaze and let the silence build.
He breaks first—not with words, but with movement.
A slight shift of his weight, a tension in his jaw that tells me I'm getting under his skin.
Good.
"Go back inside," he says. "It's not safe out here."
"You keep saying that. Are you the danger I should be worried about?"
His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second.
A heartbeat.
Then they're back on mine, and something hot flares in my stomach.
"Go. Inside."
It's not a request. It's an order. The kind of command that expects instant obedience.
I've spent my whole life surrounded by men who give orders.
