I’m not wearing a shirt. I never put my shirt back on.
I’m standing in Dragon’s office, bare-chested, with nothing but my tattoos and a thin sheen of sweat from my workout for coverage. Embarrassment fills me. I’m not a kid; I’m the former VP of the Devil’s Rejects, a man who’s spent his adultlife commanding respect. And here I am, half-naked and flushed like a teenager caught making out behind the bleachers.
Which is basically exactly what happened.
“I tried to tell you,” Gunner says from behind me, his voice tinged with both exasperation and amusement.
“Forget something?” Demon drawls, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “Or maybe several things? A shirt, your dignity…”
“Shut up, Demon,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest in a belated and useless gesture of modesty.
“Now, now,” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “No need to get testy. We’re all friends here.”
I take a step toward him, fists clenching at my sides, but Dragon’s voice cuts through the tension.
“Enough.” It’s just one word, but it does the job. Dragon doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. When he speaks, people listen. Even Demon, who respects almost nothing and no one, falls silent, though the smirk remains firmly in place.
Dragon fixes me with a level stare. “Roman, would you like to go find a shirt before we continue?”
It’s phrased as a question, but it isn’t one. I nod stiffly. “Give me two minutes.”
I back out of the office, practically colliding with Gunner, who’s still standing in the doorway. His expression is sympathetic as he steps aside to let me pass.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I really did try to tell you.”
I grunt in acknowledgment and speed-walk back to my room, cursing under my breath the entire way. I can still hear Demon’s laughter echoing in my head, and I make a mental note to wipe that smirk off his face the first chance I get. Preferably with my fist.
Back in my room, I grab the first clean shirt I can find and yank it over my head, not even bothering to check what it is. I splash some water on my face from the bathroom sink, trying tocool the heat of embarrassment from my cheeks. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Someone who gets this rattled by a kiss?
I straighten, take one last look in the mirror, and head back to Dragon’s office.
This time, I knock before entering.
“Come in,” Dragon calls, and I step inside, fully dressed this time.
Demon slow claps as I enter, and I shoot him a look that would wither a lesser man. He just grins wider, clearly delighted by my discomfort.
“Nice of you to join us, Roman.” Dragon says, his voice dry. He gestures to the empty chair beside Demon. “Have a seat.”
I slide into the chair, deliberately putting as much space between myself and Demon as possible.
“Now,” Dragon continues, all business again, “as I was about to explain, we’ve received some critical intelligence from our men inside the Devil’s Rejects.”
This immediately captures my full attention. Ever since I left the Rejects, Dragon has maintained sources within the club, feeding him information about Naomi’s activities. It’s how we’ve managed to stay one step ahead of her so far.
“Naomi is expecting a major shipment tonight,” Dragon says, pushing a folder across the desk toward me. “According to our sources, it’s the biggest one yet, and apparently very important. Important enough that she’s going out to meet it herself, along with some of her most trusted officers.”
I flip open the folder, scanning the details inside. Photos of a remote warehouse about thirty miles outside of Redbird. Satellite images showing access roads, potential entry and exit points. Notes on the expected time of the meeting and the suspected contents of the shipment.
“What exactly is this shipment?” I ask, looking up from the folder.
Dragon’s expression darkens. “Our sources weren’t able to confirm, but based on the patterns we’ve been seeing, and what Demon has shared about Naomi’s new ventures…” He trails off, exchanging a loaded glance with Gray.
“Human trafficking,” Gray supplies, his voice flat and hard. “We believe this is a transfer of people.”
My stomach turns. The Rejects I knew, the club I was part of under Atlas’s leadership, would never have touched human trafficking. We had lines we didn’t cross. But Naomi has clearly been redrawing those lines since I left.
“This warehouse,” Dragon continues, tapping the photo, “is remote. Isolated. Few access roads, even fewer witnesses. And according to our sources, Naomi will be there herself.”