For a beat, Hale studied him—nothing invasive, nothing unprofessional. Just a man cataloguing details the way men in his world always did.
“I was sorry to hear about Tatum.” His tone stayed low and controlled, but Titus caught the thread of pain. “I hated that he died that way.”
The public lie—car accident—hung between them like smoke.
Titus drew in a breath and gave a slow nod, eyes steady on Hale…the man knew nothing about the fracture between him and his brothers years ago.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Hale returned the nod. No probing. No lingering. A clean acknowledgment.
A worthy adversary knew exactly when to stop.
Titus lifted his hand toward the booth, and Hale slid onto the rich leather seat.
“You don’t normally come here,” Titus said.
“Oh?” Hale slid him a mild, unreadable look.
“I’ve been back a week, and I haven’t seen you,” he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
“You’re correct, I don’t normally come here,” Hale allowed, giving his order to the waitress with a brief nod. “I was meeting a client nearby, so I stopped for a drink.”
Across the room, the crowd grew rowdy enough to pull Hale’s attention. Titus turned his head and gave the slightest signal.
Sage waved like a madman.
“Who’s that?” Hale asked.
“Friends of mine.”
Sage elbowed Ocean before tipping his chin toward Aspen. The three peeled out of their corner with practiced ease.
Hale’s gaze moved over Sage first—the wide grin, the sharp suit—then to Ocean with his curls and impossible poise, then to Aspen: quiet, precise, eyes like a blade behind polished restraint.
No lust.
No hunger.
Hale’s interest was smarter than that.
Calculation.
Recognition of value.
Young power, dressed like money, moving at Titus’s silent command.
Titus watched Hale watch them.
Hale eased back against the leather, posture relaxed but mind anything but—Titus could see it in the way his fingers stilled against the edge of the table, in the quiet calculation behind his eyes.
He lifted a hand—small, but enough.
Sage caught it instantly, his grin breaking wide as he pushed off from the bar. The three of them cut across the room with practiced ease, slipping through the crowd like they’d been raised in places exactly like this.
The first to reach the booth, Sage offered Hale his hand, confidence bordering on reckless. “Evening.”
Ocean followed, sliding into the open seat, curls falling perfectly across his forehead as if the lighting had arranged itself for him. Aspen took the far chair—quiet, spine straight, eyes steady.
