Cigarette returns, stepping aside.
“Boss says you can come in,” he says. “Alone.”
“Wasn’t planning on bringing a parade,” I mutter, and step past him.
Inside, the air is cooler, the echo of footsteps ringing off concrete floors. The hallway is long, lit by fluorescent strips that flicker in places. Doors line the walls—some closed, some open to reveal glimpses of weight benches, tables, piles of boxes.
Killian meets me halfway down the corridor.
He leans against the wall like he’s in no hurry, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, tank top showcasing tattooed arms. There’s a lazy, predatory ease to him that never fooled me; the smarter the predator, the more relaxed the posture.
“Torres,” he says smoothly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You have something that belongs to me,” I say.
“Correction,” he says. “Someone.”
I hold his gaze. “Bring her out.”
He grins. “You’re not exactly in a position to make demands.”
“I’m in a position to decide how hard this escalates,” I say. “You’ve been wanting a meeting with me? Congratulations. You have one. Use it. Or we kill each other and make the cops’ job easier.”
He studies me for a long breath, eyes flicking over my face, my posture, my empty hands.
“You’ve grown a spine,” he says. “I like it.”
“I’ve always had one,” I reply. “You just weren’t worth bracing it for.”
His grin sharpens.
He tilts his head toward a door at the end of the hall. “She’s in there.”
He doesn’t move to block me. He doesn’t try to grab me. That in itself is a message:I don’t need to.His territory, his rules, his confidence that in this building, he’s the one holding all the levers.
Fine.
I walk past him.
Each step toward that door feels like walking toward a fault line. The closer I get, the more the air seems to hum—like everything about this moment has been building for longer than I realized.
I knock once and push.
The room inside used to be an office, probably. There’s a desk shoved against one wall, a shattered computer monitor, a cracked whiteboard with old marker ghosts on it. Now it’s mostly empty, except for the girl leaning against the far wall, arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold.
Talia.
She looks… wrong here.
Or maybe she looks too right.
Her dark hair is braided back from her face, exposing the lines of her jaw, the slope of her nose. She’s wearing a black Viper hoodie that’s too big for her, sleeves covering her hands. Her legs are bare, bruises faint along her shins. Her eyes are clear. Too clear.
“Talia,” I say.
She looks up.
For a second, a flicker of something like the old Talia—the one who trailed after Asher, who rolled her eyes at his overprotectiveness, who laughed too loudly at Jackie’s stupid jokes—moves across her face.