Around nine that night, the place started filling up. Men at the bar laughed too loudly, voices rough from smoke and road miles.
Titus wasn’t alone. Next to him sat Phoenix and Wrath.
A few glanced their way, weighing them the way men like that always did—deciding if they were trouble, or the kind that drew it.
Phoenix Knight—with a K, as he liked to say—was new to Erebus. Titus only remembered his last name because Phoenix had made damn sure of it on their first job together. The guy was tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-streaked hair that brushed his collar and startling blue eyes that missed nothing. There was a danger in him, easy and unhurried, the kind that came wrapped in a grin.
Titus had liked him from the start. Phoenix was a riot—hilarious at all the wrong times, or maybe exactly when they needed it.
Wrath sat across from them—shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair, steel-blue eyes, and a face carved from battle and bone. Scars marked him, not for show but as reminders. The former SEAL was hard to read, calm in a way that spoke of deep water. Solid guy, steady. His boyfriend, Rogue, though—now that one was a force to be reckoned with.
“I might smell, but not as bad as some animals,” Phoenix said, tossing one of the bikers a bored look before lifting an arm and sniffing his own armpit. He snorted a laugh.
A few of the bikers didn’t find it funny—their faces twisted fast from amusement to ugly.
“Please,” Wrath drawled, sounding half-asleep, “don’t tease the wildlife.”
“Maybe the SecDef’ll think twice about turning his assassins into errand boys,” Titus grunted, pushing back from the table just as the first biker lunged.
He met the man halfway—fist to throat, elbow to jaw—clean, efficient, satisfying. The biker hit the floor hard.
Another came swinging from the right; Titus ducked, drove a knee into his ribs, and sent him crashing into a table.
“Guess diplomacy’s off the table,” Phoenix said, kicking his chair back and catching a third biker square in the gut. He grinned as the man folded. “Can’t take these boys anywhere.”
Wrath sighed, stood, and caught one by the collar, slamming his face into the bar with a dull thud. “You always have to talk first,” he muttered to Phoenix.
“Hey, I was being polite,” Phoenix shot back, blocking a punch and twisting the guy’s arm until something cracked.
“Polite?” Titus grunted, dodging another swing. “You called them animals.”
“Term of endearment,” Phoenix said with a wink, driving his boot into another man’s stomach.
Wrath shoved his latest opponent toward the door. “You two done making friends?”
Titus straightened, barely winded, and glanced around the room. The place was wrecked—chairs overturned, a few bodies groaning, someone limping toward the exit. The jukebox still played in the background, completely unfazed.
Phoenix brushed dust off his shirt. “See? Peace restored.”
Wrath rolled his eyes. “You’re a menace.”
“Yeah,” Titus said, grabbing his beer off the table and taking a drink. “But he’s our menace.”
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Titus clenched his teeth. Of all the times for Viper to show up, it had to be now.
Fucking figures.
The place reeked of beer, sweat, and blood. Neon lights flickered in sick colors across overturned tables and broken glass. The music had cut off mid-track, leaving only the low hum of a jukebox still spinning somewhere near the back.
A fight had just ended. Bodies sprawled across the floor, some moving, some not—the kind of chaos that didn’t happen by accident.
Viper stepped further inside, eyes already adjusted, his team fanning out behind him.
Erebus assassins were already here—no weapons drawn, just fists, barstools, and broken bottles.
And right in the middle of it—Titus.
