Chapter Twelve
ROXY
The Next Morning
The dining hall feels like stepping into a gladiator arena where the weapons are judgment, and the shields are made of pure stubborn will. I walk in unchained, the absence of steel around my wrists both liberating and terrifying in equal measure. Every set of eyes tracks my movement as I cross to the long table where the brothers gather for meals, their conversations dying mid-sentence while they process the reality of me sitting among them like I actually belong here.
But I don’t belong here.
We all know it.
But Raze’s word carries enough weight that they’ll tolerate my presence even if they’d rather feed me to whatever nightmare lurks in the basement than share breakfast.
Maul occupies the head of the table closest to me, his werewolf bulk making the chair beneath him look like children’s furniture. Dark eyes track my approach with the kind of assessment that calculates threat level and usefulness in the same glance. Beside him, Flux shifts restlessly, his form flickering between human and something vaguely feline before settling back into skin that looks uncomfortable, containing whatever he truly is.
Scar lounges at the far end with that casual elegance that belies the predator coiled beneath designer clothes, red eyes gleaming with interest that makes my survival instincts scream warnings I’ve learned to ignore.
Wreck stands in the shadows near the door, not eating, just existing in that unsettling way that suggests he’s feeding on something invisible to human senses.
The prospects cluster at the opposite end of the room, Rhett’s shadows clinging unnaturally close while Bennett’s divine presence makes the air shimmer with light that has no business existing in a windowless space. They’re arguing again, voices carrying across stone with the comfortable ease of beings who’ve been annoying each other since before indoor plumbing.
Rhett folds his arms, still in human form, but somehow with a tail flicking irritably. “I’m just saying, blasting choir music at six in the morning is psychological warfare.”
“It’s called harmony,” Bennett snaps, light flaring brighter around his shoulders. “Some of us don’t need screaming guitars and lyrics about arson to start the day.”
“Those lyrics areexpression,” Rhett shoots back. “And atleastmy playlists don’t sound like they’re trying to summon God’s middle management.”
Bennett scoffs. “Coming from a hellhound whose idea of ambience is growling and the sound of chains dragging across stone?”
“Hey!” Rhett bares his teeth in a grin. “Chains have rhythm. You wouldn’t know good music if it descended from the heavens and smacked you with a harp.”
“That’s rich!” Bennett fires back. “At least Heaven doesn’t smell like wet dog and brimstone.”
“Children!” Scar’s voice cuts through the room like silk over steel, calm and lethal, carrying just enough authority to make both prospects freeze mid-glare. “The lady is attempting to eat. Kindly suspend your eternal roommate dispute, or I will be forced to remind you why I am older, faster, andprofoundlyunimpressed by either of you.”
Rhett mutters, “He started it.”
Bennett mutters back, “You exist to torment me.”
Scar smiles pleasantly while I slide into an empty seat between Maul and Flux, my hands trembling slightly as I reach for the coffee pot that sits steaming in the center of the table. The ceramic is warm beneath my fingers, grounding and real in ways that make the supernatural chaos surrounding me feelalmostmanageable.
Maul slides a plate of food across the table without looking at me, the gesture mechanical and efficient rather than kind. Scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon that’s probably been sitting under heat lamps for the past hour. It’s not gourmet, but it’s hot, plentiful, and significantly better than the rations delivered to my room during the time I spent chained in darkness.
“Thanks,” I murmur, the word barely audible over the resumed conversations flowing around me like I’m a rock they’ve all decided to navigate past rather than acknowledge directly.
“Don’t thank me.” Maul’s voice carries the same neutral tone he uses when discussing ledgers and financial statements. “You’re under the prez’s protection. That means you eat with us whether we like it or not. Doesn’t mean we have to pretend this is normal.”
Fair enough.
I dig into the eggs with focus that suggests genuine hunger rather than nervous energy needing an outlet. The brothers resume their conversations, voices rising and falling in patterns that feel almost ritualistic, discussing territory, shipments, and problems I’m only beginning to understand the full scope of.
Flux leans closer, his amber eyes studying me with curiosity that makes my skin prickle. “You find anything else interesting in those ledgers? Besides the smuggling route optimization you mentioned?”
The question catches me off guard, genuine interest bleeding through the professional distance he maintains with everyone except Raze. I swallow a mouthful of coffee before answering, buying time to organize thoughts that scatter under the weight of so many predators watching my response.
“Actually… yeah.” I pull a small notebook from my jacket pocket, pages filled with observations I’ve been cataloging since Raze gave me access to the club’s financial records. “Your cryptocurrency transfers… the ones routing through the offshore accounts. You’re losing about half a million annually to exchange rate manipulation that could be avoided if you structured the transfers differently.”
Silence crashes down over the table like a physical weight.
