I slip inside the first clothing store I see. The door shuts behind me on a gust of wind.
The girl at the counter pales, lips trembling.
I smile. "Spilled a drink on myself. Happens. I need a new wardrobe. Dark colors. Fitted."
Her eyes are wide like deer in headlights. Pathetic.
"You have a client, and the client isn't patient. Move." I flash my fangs for emphasis.
She startles, scurries off, gathering clothes like she's in a trance.
"And today everything's discounted a hundred percent, right?" I chuckle.
"Y-yes," she stammers.
"Wonderful," I say, leaning back on the counter as she piles up black and dark purple clothes.
I could get used to this.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Darius
Gravel crunches beneath the tires of the black SUV as it halts beforeCole's. I tell the driver to wait. My jacket straightens beneath my hands as I step out and walk toward the door.
The place is crowded, the lot filled with cars. The sign outside bears the words of commemoration, Winston Cole's photograph gazing back at me.
I did not know him. We spoke perhaps a single sentence, no more. But Ruaidhrí's reports mark him as a pillar of this town. A pillar now broken.
I don't mourn him. Mortals, immortals—it makes no difference. The wheel turns, lives end.
But Winston Cole was important to Sage. And he died because one of mine disobeyed. That wrong is for me to correct.
Ruaidhrí also mentioned the nephew—Jace Cole. I see him the moment I enter. Dark suit. Mourner's posture. A young man who once rose bright on Wall Street, only to fall, stripped of his place. The world is cruel for no reason. It has always been so.
As I advance, the crowd parts. A few low growls ripple, a flicker of yellow in hostile eyes, but no one steps forward. None dare.
Jace breaks from a conversation. His grief sharpens to a scowl the moment his gaze lands on me.
"This is a private event," he snaps without courtesy.
"I am here to offer my condolences," I answer, calm and unshaken. His hostility is expected.
"Your condolences are not welcome," he fires back.
"I understand your anger, Jace Cole." My voice remains level, heavy with certainty. "What was done was not by my order. Yet the responsibility is mine to bear."
He scoffs, bitter. "Responsibility? Should we walk into the sheriff's office so you can repeat that?"
I don't dignify the jab. Instead, I extend my offer. "I know the trajectory you once aimed for," I say. "I can place you within Hawthorn Industries. Or restore you to Wall Street, if that's your wish. Everything you lost, returned—and more."
The young coyote startles, eyes widening before he leans back and lets out a humorless chuckle.
I wait. The weight of every gaze presses in, but the room holds its silence.
"Uncle was right about this, too. Like making a deal with the devil. The devil always talks sweetest before he asks for your soul," Jace says, shaking his head, disgust cutting through his grief.
"There are no clauses. No small print. The offer is genuine," I answer, my tone even. "But I won't extend it again. Your view is adamant, even against your own benefit. Emotions like that do not go far on Wall Street." It's not a rebuke, only an assessment of character.
