Hale’s mouth tipped, faint amusement flickering. “Yes,” he said quietly, “it is.”
As he waited for Hale to elaborate, Titus let his gaze drift across the room toward the entry.
A slight stir had started—subtle, but noticeable. Someone had arrived.
He frowned at the growing cluster of people near the entrance.
“Need a refill?” the waitress asked, stepping into his line of sight. He glanced up and nodded.
As she moved away, the view opened—clear, unobstructed. Across the dance floor, near the entry—
Viper.
“Holy fuck,” Hale breathed—completely out of character.
Titus shot Hale a dark glare, grinding his teeth.
Viper looked smoking hot.
Commanding.
Powerful.
Every person in the place wanted to date him or fuck him.
And he was wearing a suit—Brioni, if Titus wasn’t mistaken—as if he’d been born in it.
Those stormy blue eyes swept the club in full predator mode, cleaving through bodies until they locked on him.
Titus felt the air leave his lungs, which was stupid. He couldn’t seem to drag in a full breath as Viper crossed the room in powerful strides, owning the place without trying.
A dozen questions crashed in at once. Why was he here? Why that suit? Why were his men with him—and dressed to the hilt?
“Titus.”
The growled word sent a sharp shiver down his spine—before he snapped the hell out of whatever that was.
Viper was about to ruin his op.
“You two know each other?” Hale asked, suspicion sharpening his voice.
“Yes.” Titus slid from the booth in one smooth motion and crossed to Viper. “Hello, darling.”
Viper froze.
Perfect.
Titus leaned in and pressed a kiss to Viper’s cheek.
“Who’s this, Titus?” Hale asked, voice smooth as silk—but Titus heard the suspicion, the warning underneath.
“This,” Titus said, slipping an arm around Viper’s waist and pulling him close, cinching him to his side. Viper stiffened but went with it.
Thank fuck.
“—is my fiancé.”
Hale would expect nothing less from their class.
