“Tonight,” I confirm. “They found us. They know about our operations. That ends now.”
“The shipment…” Flux’s voice remains neutral, but I catch the concern underneath. “We’ve got thirty million in cursed artifacts moving through tomorrow night. If authorities get involved—”
“They won’t.” My words carry absolute certainty. “Because the hunter who ran won’t live long enough to tell anyone what he saw.”
Maul approaches from the direction of the office, his werewolf hearing having obviously caught the entire exchange. The club’s secretary carries himself with the casual confidence of an apex predator wearing human skin. His dark eyes glitter with barely suppressed violence. “You want the books moved? Just in case?”
“No. We’re not running.” I let ice crystallize along my forearms, watching the brothers’ reactions. “We’re hunting.”
Ash stops pacing. Her flames brighten, excitement sharpening her features. “About fucking time.”
Coil emerges from the shadows near the bar—when did he even get there?His serpent nature makes him naturally stealthy. His eyes have already shifted to that hypnotic gold with vertical slits, ready for violence. “Parameters?”
“Find the hunter. Kill the hunter. Eliminate any evidence. Make it look like an animal attack or accidental death. No trace back to us.” I meet each brother’s gaze in turn. “This is a cleanup operation… fast, brutal, and fucking permanent.”
“And if there are more?” Thorn’s voice rustles like wind through dying leaves. The nightbark materializes near the fireplace, his form more plant than flesh, thorns and branches sprouting from his bark-like skin. “If this human has already reported back?”
“Then we kill them all.”
The words settle into the frozen air and stay there, carrying no malice, no hesitation, just intent.
“This territory is ours. It’s been ours for three hundred years. Long before cuts and road names. Long before we took the name Kings of Anarchy in the late seventies, and some human hunter with a death wish and delusions of grandeur isn’t taking it from us.”
The doorway draws my attention without a sound.
Ruckus stands there, leaning against the frame like he’s got nowhere better to be, boots scuffed, grin lazy. Gold glints at his throat and along his fingers, rings, chains, charms woven into leather and denim, catching the light in a way that makes the eye linger a second too long. It isn’t the metal that matters. It’s what clings to it.
Luck bends around him.
Coins in a nearby pocket slip and clink softly to the floor. A bottle on the bar tips, rolls, and stops just short of breaking. Somewhere overhead, a light flickers, then steadies, choosingnot to fail. Probability tightens, reshapes itself, all paths quietly nudged in his favor.
Ruckus’ gaze sweeps the room, sharp beneath the easy smile, and when he speaks, it carries weight that has nothing to do with volume.
“The other prospects?”
No one laughs.
Because when a leprechaun starts tilting the odds, someone always pays for it in blood.
I take a beat, eyes tracking back to Calder, lying out on the table. Down but breathing. Not out of the fight. My jaw tightens as I weigh it. Rhett and Bennett flash through my mind next, raw, aggressive, and still one bad decision away from tearing each other apart.
“Bring them,” I say at last. “They need the experience.”
My gaze cuts toward the back rooms, toward the armory, where I already know the two prospects are gearing up, tension probably snapping between them like a live wire. Nothing like having a Hellhound and an Angel prospecting at the same damn time. “And it’ll be good to see if they can work together without trying to kill each other.”
As if summoned by the thought, raised voices echo down the club room, sharp and heated, metal clanging in protest.
“… souls to Hell where they belong, and I’m gonna enjoy every fucking second of sending this hunter to meet his ancestors!”
“Divine judgment isn’t yours to dispense,mutt. You’re a hellhound, not a demon. Learn the difference.”
“The difference is, I get results whileyoustand around looking pretty with your wings out, thinking you’re better than everyone. How’sthatfor divine judgment,feathers?”
Scar pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll handle the children.”
“Make sure they understand.” I don’t raise my voice, but the words carry anyway, pressing outward until the temperaturedips another degree. Frost creeps along the edges of the nearest windows, feathering the glass as my gaze hardens. “This is club business. Personal grudges stay home.”
The vampire nods and disappears toward the armory with that supernatural speed that makes him seem to cease existing in one location and reappear in another.