"So. What now?"
"Now we wait."
"For what?"
"For Marcus Hale to make his move."
As if summoned by his name, the crowd shifts.
Parts.
And Marcus Hale steps into view.
He is tall—not as tall as me, but tall enough to command attention. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people's annual salary.
His hair is dark, slicked back with precision. His eyes are cold. Calculating. The kind of eyes that see people as assets to be leveraged or obstacles to be removed.
He is flanked by two enforcers.
Massive.
Heavily-muscled.
Bio-engineered.
And I see it immediately.
The rigid shoulder girdles.
The way their arms hang slightly forward, the deltoid anchor points locked in a fixed position.
The exact vulnerability Tamsin identified.
My amber veins flare.
Not gold.
Bright.
Incandescent.
Because I know, with absolute certainty, that we can take them.
Hale approaches slowly, his expression neutral.
Professional.
But I see the calculation in his eyes.
The way he is assessing me.
Assessingher.
Looking for weaknesses.
For leverage.
For any opening he can exploit.
