Sol takes the cigar from his mouth and studies the burning end like he’s bored of the conversation, which means he’s enjoying it too much. “You keep saying that like repetition makes faith sound like intelligence.”
“It isn’t faith.”
“No? Then what is it?”
I don’t answer immediately because every answer available tells him something I don’t want him to have. Oisín gave me Varina’s angle. He knelt at my feet and put the shape of the Rogues’ intended takeover in my hands when silence would have served his blood better. He could have softened it, delayed it, fed Canon little harmless pieces until the map formed on the wrong side of the line. He didn’t. That doesn’t make him harmless, but it makes this complaint the wrong kind of danger to hang on him.
“The complaint doesn’t match his access,” I say. “He hasn’t touched product or buyer lines. If the vial was swapped after handoff or the buyer is lying, Oisín isn’t the vector.”
Moth nods faintly. “That’s accurate.”
Sol gives Moth a look mild enough to be insulting, then returns to me. “Keep your dog on a leash anyway. For that matter, themarriage becomes official in the next day or two. I’m moving the paperwork up before Canon decides to do something stupid.”
My hands curl at my sides.
Dog.
Toy was deliberate. Dog is worse. Sol may not know all the details of Oisín’s damage, but he knows enough to smell the handle. He knows a man who’s been made small by the wrong mouths, and he knows exactly how to test whether I’ll react to hearing him named that way.
“They don’t even fucking care about him,” I push out, trying and failing to rein in my anger.
Sol’s expression flattens into something closer to the truth. “No, they don’t. But they care about his brain.”
The Rogues don’t want Oisín safe. They want him close. They want what he sees, what he notices, what men say around him because they mistake quiet for harmless. Canon didn’t value his son until another club put a claim on the very thing he ignored. Now Oisín is inside Obsidian, and the invisibility that made him miserable makes him useful in a way even Canon can’t miss.
Sol continues, “Canon’s alliance posture is submission until it isn’t. I don’t need a surprise ambush from a club that’s supposed to be bending the knee because you got attached to a pretty weakness with sad eyes.”
“I don’t need to be told how to do my job,” I say. “But thank you. I promise you Oisín is not your problem.”
My father smiles around the cigar. “Then keep that pesky toy of yours in check.”
I leave before my anger gets the better of me, Bricks on my heels. He waits until we’re fully in the hallway, inches from the main clubhouse. “Saint.”
“Not now.”
“Yeah, now.”
I stop and turn on him. Bricks doesn’t retreat, which is one of the reasons he’s still my right hand and not buried under a road somewhere. He has known me too long to mistake every warning for a wall. Sometimes a warning is just the last decent chance to walk away before I become unreasonable.
He lowers his voice. “Your father’s poking because he got a reaction. Stop bleeding where he can see it.”
“I’m not bleeding.”
“You’re walking like the floor insulted your mother, so forgive me for missing the subtlety.”
My mouth tightens, and his expression shifts before I can answer. The joke drops enough to show the loyalty underneath it.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Sol called him toy, dog, weakness, and you looked like you were figuring out how many bones in his hand you could break before somebody got between you.”
“Nobody in that room would’ve gotten between me.”
“I would have.”
“For Sol?”
“For you,” he says, heaving out a heavy sigh. “You don’t need to give the old man proof that the kid’s a pressure point. He already suspects. Don’t hand him a map.”
For a moment, the only sound is the muffled clubhouse through the door. “The Rogues will try to use him.”
