“Of course it fucking does!” His ruby pulses with a sudden flare, jolting the hover-car’s enchantments into a stutter. Lights flicker, engine hum faltering. “But what terrifies me more is what he’ll do when you refuse.”
That threat hangs between us. I’ve seen what happens to those who deny Kian Blackwood. The lucky vanish, and the rest are left praying for a swifter end.
The hover-car descends, the engines vibrating with our silence and fury.
“My office,” Dom mutters, his fingers sweeping over the control panel with lethal calm. “Ward-bound. Even his shadows can’t cross it.”
I nod without looking at him. One glance, and something essential might break, and I’m not sure which of us would bleed more from the rupture.
The Den rises before me, a twisted memory I’ve spent two months trying to bury. My feet turn to lead at the threshold. Last time I stood here—drink in hand, pulse steady, the world still mine—Rowe’s voice shattered everything I thought I had.
The neon dragon that once crowned the entrance writhes, broken and wounded, its light catching on new additions that transform The Den’s ancient bones. Steel reinforcements cage the stone walls, sharp-edged and sterile. Security wards glow with unfamiliar patterns, designed more for containment than enticement.
Raze and Kane flank the doors, sentinels carved from shadow. Once, Raze would’ve swept me into a bruising hug. Now he won’t even meet my eyes. His coat strains across broad shoulders set in stone, the fresh scars on his knuckles a testament to whatever violence has reshaped this place in my absence.
“Raze?” My voice barely escapes my throat.
He flinches.
Kane fumbles the spell-lock, his fingers trembling slightly as he activates the wards. Neither looks at me. The men who once treated me as blood now act as if I’m a ghost they’re forbidden to acknowledge.
I start toward Raze, but Dom’s hand curls around my wrist. The message is clear: whatever brotherhood once existed here has been burned away, replaced by something colder and crueler.
The last thing I see before the doors seal behind us are Raze’s shoulders collapsing with the release of a breath he’s likely been holding since he saw me. As if my presence alone summons something worth fearing.
The main floor stretches out before us in a familiar architecture, but the velvet-draped lounges where couples once tangled in spelled shadows have vanished. So has the golden haze of pleasure-magic and expensive perfume. Even the air feels wrong, thick with the metallic tang of blood and fear instead of sweet smoke and desire.
The crowd that parts for us isn’t the usual mix of trust fund brats and ambitious socialites. These are harder faces, with scarred knuckles and hollow eyes. At a corner table, a man in a torn jacket counts blood-streaked lumes. Two women with fighter’s frames pass something between them, a vial glinting with the sheen of bottleddarkness. The Den has shed its glamour and become a marketplace for violence.
My gaze catches on a dark smear staining the marble floor, exactly where I collapsed that night, and the memory surges before I can stop it. Dom’s hands on me, his magic wrapping us in a fevered haze while The Den pulsed around us, every breath a reckless, exultant surrender until Rowe’s voice shattered it all. I can’t breathe. My lungs seize. The present buckles as the past rips through the seams, leaving me suspended between then and now, unsure if I’m standing or breaking all over again.
Dom’s fingers find my pulse, and the pressure helps anchor me to now. I flinch instinctively, the contact hitting a nerve before I register it’s him. My body braces for pain, then surrenders to the steadiness. He doesn’t speak or offer comfort, only holds me still until my breathing steadies.
The glass shattering startles me. A server’s trembling hands have betrayed her, sending whiskey spreading across the floor. She kneels to gather the shards, but stops cold as Dom’s shadow overtakes her.
“I’m sorry, I’m so—” Her words choke off as Dom crouches beside her. The room stiffens into silence. His hand moves with deliberate slowness as he lifts a jagged shard of glass, turning it slowly beneath the lights.
“Leave it.” The softness in his voice is a warning, not comfort. The girl scrambles backward, palms torn open, red dripping down pale wrists.
I recognize her. Melody. She used to dance on the center platform, her spelled ink casting constellations into the surrounding air. Now, those same tattoos are dull and lifeless. Like everything else here, she’s been stripped of her shine.
I turn toward the bar, searching for something—someone—to tether myself to. Raven stands behind it, little more than a silhouette. Her opal-dusted eyes have gone flat, her movements robotic as she pours drink after drink. The crystal bottles that once danced through the air at her command remain firmly grounded.
When she spots me, something flashes across her face—recognition, fear, warning—before she jerks her gaze away.
Overhead, the lights stutter and dim, casting fractured shadows across walls clawed raw by recent violence. Impact marks crater the stone. Broken furniture has been cleared away, but dark stains remain where blood seeped into the grout.
I hear the whispers next.
“That’s where he put Marcus through the wall.”
“Did you see the VIP section after someone said her name?”
My chest tightens once more. Dom’s fingers find the back of my neck, thumb steady against my pulse. His other hand braces across my lower back. I hadn’t realized I was swaying.
A crash from the upper floor makes me flinch. Two men grapple near the balcony rail, their blood rubies flaring violent crimson as magic crackles between them. The larger one—shoulders thick beneath torn leather—spits accusations through clenched teeth. “You fucking cheat! That fight was rigged. I want my lumes!”
The other, sleeves pushed to the reveal inked skin, sneers. “Not my fault your mut couldn’t last thirty seconds in the Pit. Should’ve known better than to bet against—”
