Page 95

Outside, the building looks like it’s falling apart. Chipped cinder blocks, a neon “OPEN” sign with a fist made to look like it’s flying at your head, cracked sidewalk, and metal bars over the windows.

The sign hanging inside the main door says “Welcome to Redmark Gym,” but the smell of blood, testosterone, and regrets sends a very different message.

It’s an information and violence-fueled way station that never sleeps.

Upstairs is for brawling with other testosterone-fueled morons until you feel like a male, but downstairs is where the real action is.

People only come to Redmark if they need to beg, bleed, or barter. And no matter what your reason for stepping through the doors, you don’t leave without paying Riven’s price.

Sometimes he collects in the form of cold, hard cash. Other times, he demands a pound of flesh.

But everyone knows what Riven’s preferred currency is, and it’s the last thing they want to part with.

Secrets.

Riven comes from a minor Old World house that spent the last seven hundred years clawing for whatever scraps of relevance they could get their hands on.

With parents obsessed with nothing so much as rising socially by any means necessary, a young Riven rejected the idea of scraping for approval.

He saw their desperation as pathetic and chose to officially cleave from his house, much to his sire’s irritation, and forge his own way.

“Whispers move kingdoms faster than swords,” is what he told me, back when there were still kingdoms to move.

The male doesn’t believe in heroism or destiny.

What he believes in is leverage.

“Good evening, gentlemen!” Riven saunters down the stairs from the top floor, where his office and other off-limits rooms are located.

As usual, he’s dressed in a tailored three-piece suit. His nearly black hair is perfectly styled, and he has one hand in the pocket of his trousers while the other scrolls lazily on his cell. Black and grey tattoos peek from the collar of his shirt, winding their way up his neck before stopping at his square jawline. Riven never wears any jewelry aside from an obsidian bracelet on his wrist that I’ve never seen him without.

He’s the picture of classic elegance.

And he couldn’t possibly look more out of place in this shit hole.

Gav steps forward to greet him. They shake hands, exchanging pleasantries.

“So where’s the glowing Omega?” Vae asks, scanning the open floor plan like she’s going to pop out and set the treadmills on fire.

“She’s upstairs in one of my personal rooms,” Riven replies, walking back up the stairs. “She’s rather… upset.”

“Upset how?” Caelan demands, sounding way more pissed than the situation calls for. My gaze flicks to his hands, which are unsurprisingly clenched into fists. I can’t help but roll my eyes.

Here we go.

“Well, she came out of the dumpster covered in the trash from both here and the Indian place next door, so you can imagine what she smelled like. One of my men stuck her in the showers and hosed her down.” He chuckles. “She didn’t appreciate the hospitality.”

Apparently, Caelan doesn’t think that’s funny.

“Yeah, I imagine an Omega might get a little feral when random Alphas strip them, throw them in a locker room shower, and blast them with cold water like they’re a bio hazard. Funny how that doesn’t exactly scream ‘soft and comfortable.’”

Riven scowls. “No one stripped her, Caelan. We put her in there with her clothing on, thank you very much. And the water was lukewarm at worst. We aren’t animals.”

“No,” Caelan’s jaw ticks. “You apparently just treat Omegas like they are.”

Riven stops at the top of the stairs and turns to Caelan.“Is there something you want to hash out, or has the ice around your personality finally started to crack after all this time?”

Riven looks amused rather than angry, but I know better than anyone that he can change on a dime. And I don’t feel like playing referee between these two tonight.