But pictures didn't do them justice.
The first one—Quinn Haydraugh, the King of the North—was tall and lean, with silver-blond hair and features so perfectly symmetrical they almost hurt to look at. He stood with his arms crossed, impossibly still, like the air had frozen around him. He looked like winter given human form. Like he'd never raised his voice in his life because he'd never needed to.
The second was Wolfe Sideris, King of the East, and Carrie's heart nearly stopped. She'd heard the rumors about him. Everyone had. Borderline sociopath, they whispered. Unpredictable. Dangerous in a way that went beyond normal mafia dangerous. He was broader than the others, darker, with a scar cutting through one eyebrow and a feral edge to his stance—weight forward, shoulders loose, like a predator waiting for an excuse. His eyes scanned the clearing constantly, tracking movement, and even from this distance Carrie could feel the violence coiled inside him, waiting.
The third was Skye Wyndham, King of the West, and he was... different. Where the others radiated danger, he radiated ease. Relaxed smile. Open posture. The kind of man who looked like he'd help you change a tire and then invite you to dinner at his estate. Carrie knew better, of course—you didn't become a mafia king by being nice—but looking at him, it was hard to remember that. He seemed so genuinelyfriendly.
And the fourth—
Devyn Chaleur. King of the South. The one they called the Dark Prince in certain circles, though never to his face.
He had dark hair pushed back from a face all sharp angles and barely contained intensity. His eyes were wrong—too gold, too bright, catching the light in a way that made Carrie's breath stutter. He was speaking to the others in a low voice, and even from this distance, every line of him saidI'm in charge and you already know it.The impatience. This was a man who solved problems with money or violence, and if you were smart, you took the money and disappeared. If you weren't smart—
Well. People who weren't smart around the King of the South didn't tend to stay problems for long.
He was so—
Thwip.
Something stung her neck.
Carrie had exactly one second to thinkoh nobefore her legs stopped working and the world tilted sideways. She was falling, the forest spinning around her, and then—
Arms caught her. Strong arms. A face swam into view above her—young, professional, blank.
"Tango Four neutralized," the soldier said into his radio. "Requesting extraction for processing."
The radio crackled. "Copy that. Extraction team inbound."
The soldier shifted her weight easily and carried her toward the tree line. As consciousness faded, Carrie saw him pause and bow—actually bow—toward the four men in the clearing.
Devyn flicked his hand in dismissal without looking.
Then everything went dark.
THE KINGS WAITED UNTILthe extraction team had disappeared into the trees before resuming their conversation.
Quinn watched the forest swallow the soldiers, his expression revealing nothing. Fourth civilian this month who'd wandered too close to a convergence point. The security protocols were handling it—memory modification, safe return to a hiking trail, a vague recollection of getting lost and being found by a kind park ranger.
No harm done. Just an inconvenience.
"The dreams," Quinn said, his voice low and flat. It wasn't a question.
The four of them had shared many things over the past decade—territory, secrets, the weight of crowns none of them had been born to wear. But this was different. This was something none of them could explain.
For the past three nights, all four of them had dreamed of Abigail Briones.
The same dream. Her face pale and still. Her honey-blonde hair matted with blood. Her eyes open, staring at nothing. Dead.
"Clearer each time," Skye said. "There's a door. Old, rusted. And behind it—"
"We know what's behind it." Wolfe's voice was a low growl, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to hit something. The beast in him was closer to the surface today. "The question is what we're going to do about it."
"The question," Quinn corrected quietly, "is whether Hewhay's is showing us what will happen or what already has."
All eyes turned to Devyn.
He stood slightly apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the mist curling between the ancient trees. The wild majesty of this place usually settled something in him—the raw power of nature, untamed and uncaring. Today it just made him think of locked doors and passages that led nowhere.
