Menace sighed. “They hate Iron Valor, man. Everything we stand for. We’ve fucked up their shit on too many occasions, and their lives would simply be easier if we were eliminated. The human world would be way too dangerous without supernaturals like us and the others like us standing in the gap.”
“No fucking kidding. I just wish it didn’t always seem to start and end with us.”
Menace made a sound like a growl. “Ain’t that the truth? Bronc has had to deal with more than his share of the shit.”
“I’m here to try to lighten that load as much as he allows, which ain’t much.” I said with a strained laugh.
“Dude, I sat where you are for years. Good luck with all that.”
I almost thanked him, but that wasn’t our way. Instead, I said, “If you hear anything, call me direct. Don’t trust the relay.”
“Of course not. And Wrecker—if anyone threatens Parker again, I’ll come myself. Not as a king, but as her pack.”
He ended the call before I could say anything. It felt good. It felt like old times, when your brothers would murder half the world just to keep you from bleeding.
I stared at the dark screen, the afterimage of the kings’ faces burned into my brain. I wondered how many of them had killed for love, or if it was all just another game. For a second, I hated them for being so calm about it.
I sat there, thinking about the drones humming over the roof and listening to the ticking of the clock in the hall. The new clubhouse felt like a submarine—hermetically sealed, pressurized against the outside world. But I liked it. You couldn’t be betrayed if you never let your guard down.
I heard footsteps behind me. They were Parker’s, soft and light. She wore one of my old flannels, the hem nearly to the knees of her leggings, hair wild, like her. Rocket followed at her heels, head on a swivel. The sight of her in my shirt did things to me that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with need. The bruises on her face had mostly faded to nothing.
She eased up behind my chair, set a hand on my shoulder. “How’d they take it?”
“They want their pound of flesh,” I said, leaning back so her fingers dug in. “Kazimir offers safe houses. Rafe offers southern muscle. Menace sends his best. It’s a united front.”
She smirked. “So, status quo.”
“Yep.” I set a hand on her knee. “Except now you’re in the middle of it, too.”
She didn’t flinch. “Good. I’d rather be in the middle than in the crosshairs.”
I wanted to tell her she was still there. But I didn’t. Instead, I pulled her onto my lap, made her straddle me in the leather office chair. She smelled like jasmine and coffee, and her laugh was a knife, sharp and bright.
“You think it’s really Maltraz?” she asked, nose brushing my ear.
“If it isn’t, it’s someone just as bad.”
She drummed her fingers on my chest. “Let’s burn them down, then. Before they get to us.”
Her eyes were clear. No fear. No regret. I loved her for that, more than anything.
We sat that way for a while, her heartbeat steady against mine, and I let the world outside go silent.
It wouldn’t last. It never did.
On cue, I heard Bronc coming down the hall.
“Whatever y’all are doing in there, stop it. We still got plans to make.” His voice was gruff, but there was a note of humor.
I quickly put my laughing mouth on Parker’s, stopping her mocking repeat of his words before he could hear them. I stood and pulled her legs around my waist, my hands under her ass anchoring her to me. My mouth was still attached to hers in a searing kiss. God, I could live with my tongue in her mouth. Everything about her was addicting, and I was hooked.
Chapter 23
Silas Drake
The new strip club in Clovis was still wet around the edges, a scabbed wound on an otherwise featureless strip of highway. I’d kept the original neon—tacky, pink as bruised gums, spelling out “Eden’s” with the E burned out so it always read as “Den’s” after midnight—but the rest was gutted and rebuilt, all dark glass and steel. Inside, the air reeked of broken dreams and bad decisions. It fought a losing war against the ghost of cheap perfume, tequila sweat, and fresh blood from where the new doormen got a little eager.
I was juggling several things at once, so the main room had doubled as my war room and office for a while. Stage lights shone a cycled mix of purple and red lighting over the silver pole on the center of the platform. The concrete floor had a high-gloss epoxy finish, which would make the spills and fluids that would soon cover it easier to clean. The tables and booths were an eclectic mix of this and that, but it worked with the rest of the aesthetic. I wasn’t going for high-end, necessarily, just nice enough to keep the clientele coming back for more. The girls were what sold a joint like this, and I intended to pack the place with the roundest, sexiest, and most willing I could wrangle.
