The night drags on, the din of drunken laughter and crude conversation growing louder with every passing minute. Paige sits at the far end of the table, her back stiff, her movements mechanical as she eats, though it’s clear she’s barely touching her food. A few bites here and there, enough to appear cooperative, but not enough to sustain her.
It’s not my problem. If she’s too stubborn to eat, that’s her issue. But there’s a practical side to it–if she wastes away and dies here, she becomes useless to Tobias, to the Black Vipers, to anyone. A dead girl can’t spill secrets. A dead girl can’t negotiate.
She has to survive. Not that I care.
Her glass of water sits untouched, the condensation dripping down its sides, leaving rings on the tablecloth. Her hands remain in her lap now, her fork abandoned. She keeps her face blank, her eyes downcast, but I can see the faint tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders curve inward, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
And then the conversation shifts.
One of the advisors, a man named Reynard, leans forward, his voice cutting through the hum of chatter. “Casualties from the meeting,” he says, raising his glass like it’s a toast. “Final count. Eight of theirs, five of ours.”
“Good riddance,” another man chimes in, chuckling as he swirls his whiskey. “Less bodies to feed.”
The table erupts into low laughter and murmurs of agreement, the men toasting to the deaths like they’re celebrating a good harvest. Paige doesn’t move at first, but her mask cracks just enough for me to catch it. Her lips press together tightly, her gaze flicking up for a brief moment before she lowers it again.
She’s shocked.
Good. She should be. She’s lived in this world long enough to know what it’s like, but it’s clear she’s never been close enough to the edge to hear this kind of talk firsthand. To these men, life and death are just numbers on a ledger. Losses are acceptable, as long as they’re not our losses.
4
She doesn’t belong here, not at this table, not in this life. The bruises on her arms and throat, the faint tension in her posture, the way her fingers twitch against her lap–they all scream
the same truth.
She’s prey, surrounded by predators.
And some of them are circling.
The man sitting beside her, a stocky enforcer named Callan, leans in slightly, his mouth moving near her ear. His voice is low, too quiet for me to hear, but whatever he says makes her stiffen. Her hands tighten in her lap, her entire body going rigid as his words linger like poison in the air between them.
Then his hand moves.
From my angle, I can’t see it directly, but I don’t need to. The subtle shift of his arm, the way Paige jerks slightly, her chair scraping the floor as she moves just a fraction away from him -it’s enough. His hand is under the table, on her thigh, no doubt, and I see the flash of panic in her eyes before she smothers it.
She tries to push him off with a warning glare, her hand pressing against his arm. I can see her lips move–she’s telling him to stop. But Callan doesn’t stop.
The men around him notice, and instead of intervening, they encourage him. Quiet, jeering laughter fills the air, muffled comments slipping through the noise. “Go on, Callan,” one of them says with a grin. “She’s just playing hard to get.”
Paige’s face tightens, the mask slipping further, though she’s clearly fighting to keep her composure. But her eyes are wide, her breathing quick. She’s losing control.
And then she snaps.
Her hand darts to the table, quick and decisive, and she grabs her fork. Before anyone can stop her, she plunges it into Callan’s hand.
“I said, keep your hands off me,” she hisses, her voice low but shaking with fury.
Callan screams, yanking his hard back, the fork clattering to the floor. Blood wells from the puncture wounds, dripping onto the pristine white tablecloth. The room goes silent for half a second before Callan’s rage explodes.
“You little bitch!” he roars, his fist flying before anyone can react.
The sound of the impact is sickening, a sharp crack as his hand connects with her face. Paige is sent sprawling to the floor, her chair toppling over with a loud clatter. She lies there for a second, stunned, her hair falling across her face as blood trickles from her nose.
Callan doesn’t stop. His hand flies to his belt, pulling a gun free, his face twisted with anger. He raises it, pointing it at her, his chest heaving.
And then I’m behind him.
I move before I even realize it, my chair scraping back as I close the distance between us in two long strides. My gun is in my hand before his is fully raised, the cold metal pressed against his back.
“Think twice before you do that,” I say, my voice low and calm, but sharp enough to cut through the tension.
1/2
Chapter 16: Jaxon
Callan freezes, his entire body stiffening as he feels the barrel against his spine. His head turns slightly, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as they meet mine, “What the hell, Steele? She-”
“I don’t care,” I interrupt, my voice colder now. “Drop it.”
For a moment, no one moves. The room holds its collective breath, every man frozen, watching the standoff with wide eyes. Callan’s jaw tightens, his grip on the gun tightening for half a second before he relents, the weapon falling from his hand with a dull thud.
I lower my gun, stepping back as Callan turns to face me fully. His eyes burn with fury, his injured hand trembling as blood drips onto the floor.
“She stabbed me,” he snarls, his voice shaking. “I was just-”
“Keep your excuses,” I cut him off, my voice sharp enough to silence him. My gaze flicks briefly to Paige, who’s still on the ground, cradling her cheek with one hand. She’s shaking, her breaths coming fast and shallow, but her eyes are locked on Callan, burning with a mix of fury and fear.
“Clean yourself up,” I say to Callan, my tone cold. “And leave. Now.”
Callan hesitates, his jaw clenching, but the look in my eyes must be enough to convince him. He grabs a napkin from the table, wrapping it around his hand, and storms out of the room, his footsteps heavy and angry.
The room is silent again, all eyes shifting between me and Paige. Tobias, seated at the head of the table, finally speaks, his tone calm but edged with authority.
“That’s enough excitement for one night,” he says smoothly. “Let’s not ruin dinner any further.”
