The entire high-top turns to see who’s being summoned.
Monica turns too.
She looks at me, at Rose, at Azriel’s wave, then back at Saint.
She’s fast. I’ll give her that.
Rose arrives at an answer. The screen of her phone goes black. Her eyes follow Rose who is already sliding out of the booth.
“We don’t have to,” I protest.
“We absolutely do. Garret is there, and I want to piss him off. Plus, I’m bored.”
We pass the bartender serving drinks. The crowd folds around us, someone’s elbow, someone’s sorry through the chorus of “Little Things” by Bush.
I’m aware of the pool lamp getting closer and the green of the felt and of Saint against a wall the way you’re aware of a fire without feeling the heat.
Azriel meets us at the corner of the table.
“Finally. Civilized company. Do you know what these animals were arguing about before you walked in? Whether a fifty-dollar side bet pays before or after the eight ball like they’re two lawyers.”
“Did you bet?” she asks.
“Obviously, I bet. I’m not civilized. I just dress like it.”
And I laugh.
That’s the whole crime. It comes out easy—no negotiation, no toll—the way laughing only works around people who’ve never once made me pay for it. Azriel grins like he won something. For exactly one second, the night is simple.
Then the temperature changes.
I don’t look toward Saint because I don’t have to. The cue stays on his shoulder. The shadows stay where they are. Valen’s gaze does a slow lap at Saint, at me, at Azriel like a man updating a private spreadsheet as he takes a sip of his drink to save the file.
“Amy,” Saint says.
Just my name. Flat. Ironed. A voice with no read receipts.
“Saint,” I say, exactly as flat, and I get the small vicious pleasure of watching it land on him the way his landed on me.
Garret straightens up from his shot, looks between us, and very wisely decides to chalk his cue right before his gaze lands on Rose.
“You two know each other,” Azriel says, dry as a group chat screenshot. Azriel knows exactly what he’s doing, and the look Saint gives him over my head is a full paragraph in a language only brothers speak. He’s never seen us in the same room orintroduced us, but we all know we know each other. This is for the other Prey’s benefit.
“We’ve met,” I say sarcastically.
Rose makes a sound into her beer that is legally not a laugh. No one wants to address the tension between us.
They rack the next game.
Azriel forces a cue into my hands over my protest. “You cannot possibly be worse than Garret. He plays like the table owes him an apology.”
“Fine,” I say, reluctantly taking the cue.
I take a shot and miss. Take another and don’t. Rose turns out to be a shark, which surprises everyone except me.
Saint plays his turn, then goes back to the wall between them. He doesn’t stand next to me. He doesn’t perform a single thing. But every time I look up, he’s watching me, while Monica watches him.
And every time Azriel makes me laugh, the grip on the cue in his hand gets one notch tighter. I’m surprised it doesn’t snap.