"Depends. You gonna yell at me about prank escalation again?"
Her mouth twitches. "I told you the med closet was a line, not a suggestion." Then her expression sobers in that way that makes everyone within a ten-mile radius pay attention. "Seriously, though. You feel that?"
"Feel what?"
She taps ash into the gravel, gaze drifting toward the road. "Air's… wrong today. Old shit waking up. Threads pulling tight."
Most people would write it off as Frankie being Frankie. But every time she's said something's coming, something has absolutely fucking come.
"You talking about Chuck?"
"That's part of it," she says softly. "But not all."
A prickle moves down my spine, the same warning I used to feel when a mission started going sideways before anyone said a word.
"You see something?" I press.
"Not clear yet." Her eyes flick back to me. "Just… pay attention to your edges. And hers." A tilt of her head. "Your girl is carrying more than she's saying."
I swallow. "I know."
"Good." She flicks the cigarette out and crushes it under her boot. "Arden and Leo are swinging by later with Victor. Malachi wants extra brains on the Chuck situation. And the other thing."
"The other thing" being the network that feels a little too organized for comfort.
"Arden will actually come in daylight?" I ask because the alternative is letting the unease sink its claws in deeper.
She huffs a laugh. "He owns sunscreen. And probably SPF-lined hoodies or some shit. Don't let him hear you call him a vampire to his face, though. He finds new and creative ways to get revenge."
I've seen him stand in the shadows of the clubhouse like he's made of mist, Leo beside him all bright grin and lethal. Victor with that bored, rich-boy look that never quite hides the cobra underneath.
Nobody believes Arden drinks blood. But no one is entirely sure he doesn't.
"I'll be back later," I tell her. "Text me if Malachi needs me before then."
"Yeah, yeah." She waves a hand.
Then, as I swing my leg over the bike: "Hey, Knox?" I glance back. She's watching me with that unnerving, too-aware gaze. "Whatever's coming? You're not supposed to fight it alone."
I nod once. "Copy that."
I'm about to kick the engine over when the sleek black SUV rolls into the lot.
Victor's ride. Windows tinted dark enough to hide bodies, engine purring low and expensive. It glides to a stop near the clubhouse entrance, not quite blocking traffic but making a statement.
The driver's door opens first. Leo unfolds from behind the wheel all easy movement and a disarming grin with his dark hair pushed back, olive skin catching the afternoon sun. In dark jeans and a fitted henley that shows off shoulders built for more than charm.
"Frankie!" he calls, spotting her. His grin widens. "You still owe me twenty bucks from the last poker game."
She fishes a fresh cigarette from her pack, lights it, and flicks the match at his feet. "You cheated."
"Prove it."
"I don't have to prove it. I know it. You know it. Arden definitely knows it." She jerks her chin toward the passenger side.
The other door opens. Arden steps out. Pale, sharp-featured, dressed head to toe in black like he's in permanent mourning. His eyes sweep the lot once before settling on Frankie. The scan takes about two seconds. He doesn't miss anything.
He blinks once, holds it, and that's apparently all the greeting Frankie needs because she nods back.