I smirk. “You going soft on me, Alex?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, smiling. “Can you blame me?”
Before I can answer, the sound of footsteps carries from inside. The latch clicks again, and Mr. Carler fills the frame. The beta is mid-fifties, maybe older, and a little soft in the middle. He’s dressed in pressed slacks, a pale blue button-up, and a gold watch that has to cost a fortune because it’s way too fucking ugly to wear for any other reason.
“What do you want?” Carler snaps before I can get a word out.
I keep my voice steady and polite, despite the tightening of my muscles. “We’re with Veniver Movers. We’re here to collect a package for transport.”
Behind him, I hear the maid’s voice drift faintly inside the house, but I can’t see her.
Carler’s head jerks over his shoulder. “Get back to work,” he barks, his tone slicing through the air. “I’ve got this.”
The silence that follows is thick. Then he turns back to me, jaw tight. “You’ve got the wrong house. There’s nothing here for you to pick up.”
My smile tightens, the kind you wear to keep from baring your teeth. I inhale, slow and deliberate, tasting the air, waiting for the maid’s powder and starch scent to fade. Then I drill down my senses. There are no other heartbeats. No one else is here.
Alex must sense it too because he straightens beside me, the easy charm slipping from his face.
“Oh, no.” I drop my smile, then I pop my neck. “We definitely have the right house.”
Carler’s posture changes the moment he feels it—the drop in temperature, the quiet that always comes before something breaks. His confidence wavers enough to show in the twitch of his jaw.
He opens his mouth, maybe to tell us to leave, but he doesn’t get the chance.
Alex moves first.
In one quick motion, he grips Carler by the front of his starched shirt, jerks him clean out of the doorway, and slams a single punch into his gut. The sound is ugly—a dull, wet thud followed by a strangled grunt.
Carler doubles over, stumbling back against the doorframe, clutching his stomach. His expensive watch glints as he tries to straighten, wheezing like his lungs have been punched right out of him.
Alex doesn’t say a word. He stands there, breathing slow, waiting for the fucker to catch his breath.
I step forward, the heel of my boot pressing into the marble threshold. “Now that we’ve got your attention,” I whisper, letting my voice slip into an angry growl.
Carler’s eyes go wide, panic finally breaking through the arrogance.
“You owe a lot of money to some very important people,” I tell him, voice calm, steady. “And they’re tired of waiting.”
Carler starts shaking his head, breath coming out quick. “No—no, I can get it. I’ll find the money. I’ll pay Marc every penny, I swear. With interest. Double, even?—”
I grab the back of his neck, fingers digging into the soft skinthere, and lean in until he can’t look anywhere but at me. “It’s too fucking late for that.”
The beta makes a choking sound, halfway between a plea and a sob, but I’m already dragging him down the front walk. Gravel crunches under my boots as I shove him toward the open U-Haul.
Carler barely gets a breath out before I fling him inside. His head hits the metal floor with a hollow clang that echoes down the street. Then Alex pulls the door down, the roll of it slamming into place with a heavy crack, then he snaps the latch shut.
We walk back to the front of the vehicle, unhurried. Alex’s band tee catches the light—Napalm Deathglaring across his chest like a warning.
I slide into the driver’s seat, and turn the key. The engine rumbles to life as the clean-up crew pulls into the driveway. I hold up a single finger, telling them that we know of one other person in the house. The driver nods and then scans the front of the house, probably looking for cameras.
Then the banging starts. Behind us, fists pounding on metal, muffled shouts breaking through.
“You can’t do this!” Carler yells, voice cracking. “Let me out! You can’t?—”
Alex doesn’t even look back. He buckles in, exhaling slowly. After a moment, he says quietly, “You need to mark Skyla. It’s time.”
I let out a long, tired sigh, gripping the wheel tighter. “Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”
