Of all the places Titus could be—
This?
A fucking nightclub?
This wasn’t his world.
Except… maybe it was.
And there’d been no reason in hell he’d have seen it coming.
He clenched his teeth as he stepped out of the car. The driver said something—thank you, have a good night, whatever—but Viper was already walking, boots hitting the pavement with that same lethal rhythm that made men on ops fall silent.
Walt had given him an address. Nothing more.
He’s in there. Don’t do anything stupid.
Right.
Too late.
Viper stepped toward the entrance, heat rising beneath his collarbone—something rough he didn’t want to name.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected.
But it damn sure wasn’t this.
He moved toward the velvet rope, eyes narrowed, clocking exits, security, layout—running threat assessment without thinking.
Then a bouncer stepped cleanly into his path—broad shoulders, suit, trained. Didn’t even flinch at Viper’s look.
“Sir, this event is private.”
Viper didn’t bother answering.
How the hell had Titus gotten inside?
This wasn’t a place you strolled into.
It was curated wealth.
Names on lists.
Faces recognized.
Titus didn’t fit that—
not the Titus he knew, the one with sand in his hair and blood under his nails.
The same man who raided fridges and cursed like breathing.
Viper stepped back from the rope.
Breaking a civilian just to get through a door wasn’t on the table.
Sliding out his phone, he hit the one number that would get him inside without turning this into a problem.
Without making it anyone else’s problem.
