That was all I needed.
I shifted her fully behind me, planting myself between her and the street.
Havoc moved without a word, his body blocking the tavern entrance. Ace and Beast appeared in the doorway, drawn by instinct and noise.
The suited man’s eyes flicked over them—quick, assessing.
“She’s my fiancée,” he said smoothly.
Rylie made a small, broken sound.
“She doesn’t look like she wants to be,” Saint replied.
The man’s gaze snapped to me, and for the first time, the charm slipped. What showed underneath was cold. Calculating. Angry that something he owned had run.
“And who are you?” he asked.
“Someone you don’t want to meet on a bad day.”
His eyes dipped to my shoulders, like he was deciding whether I was worth killing.
Then he noticed the numbers.
He smiled again—but it was tighter this time.
“Rylie,” he said softly, voice turning coaxing. “Come here. You’re embarrassed. Weddings are stressful.”
Her hand shook against my ribs.
“No,” she whispered.
The word was barely audible.
It hit him anyway.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
Then he nodded, like he was granting her permission to breathe. “Fine. Take a minute. But we need to talk.”
He turned to the shaved-head man. “Get the car.”
The muscle hesitated, staring at us, then moved off.
The suited man kept his eyes on Rylie. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Not a plea.
A threat.
He turned and walked away like he owned the street.
Rylie sagged.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
“Inside,” I ordered.
Havoc yanked the door open.
