Something slams into my front door hard enough to shake the wall.
I freeze.
A second later, another hit. Not knocking. Not even pounding. This is the kind of impact that says hello, I have skipped all social customs and come directly to violence.
My mouth goes dry so fast it hurts.
The third kick blows the lock plate clean off.
The door flies inward with a metallic crack, bangs against the wall, and rebounds halfway. Cold hallway air rushes in, carrying the greasy, spiced smell of the lower-tier corridor and the heavier scent beneath it—leather, engine oil, ozone weapons.
Odex.
Well. Fantastic.
Three enforcers come in first, all broad shoulders and ugly purpose, tusked and gray-skinned and dressed in dark fitted armor that saysprivate securityif you’re a coward andthugif you’ve ever met one. Their boots thud over my floor. One of them kicks aside a bottle without looking.
Mysk strolls in after them like he’s arriving late to his own birthday.
He is not Odex by birth, but he has spent so much money trying to look more menacing that the effect is almost artistic. His coat is black reptile leather with a blood-red lining. His rings flash. His beard is trimmed to a predatory point. He smells like expensive smoke, bitter resin perfume, and the kind of confidence people cultivate when they’ve outsourced the stabbing.
He takes in the apartment, then me on the couch, and smiles with genuine delight.
“Bronwyn Varek,” he says. “I had hoped to find you at your most pathetic.”
I slowly push myself upright. Every joint protests. “Mysk. You shouldn’t have. I’m underdressed for company.”
One of the enforcers snorts.
Mysk’s eyes glint. “And yet you remain committed to charm. It almost makes me sentimental.”
I plant my feet on the floor and stand. Bad idea. The room tips, lurches, and then grudgingly settles into place again. I drag a hand through my hair and try to look less like something dredged from a canal.
“What is this?” I ask. “No message? No appointment window? You kick in my door before noon now?”
Mysk steps farther inside, gaze drifting over my apartment with leisurely contempt. “I sent many messages.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been drunk.”
“That too.”
He stops at the low table and picks up one of the betting slips between two fingers. “You owe me a great deal of money.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?” He glances up. “Because your recent behavior suggests confusion.”
The enforcers spread out behind him, not touching anything, which somehow feels ruder than if they had started looting the place. They’re here to make a shape in the room. A threat with shoulders.
I cross to the kitchenette, every movement measured because I refuse to look hurried in my own home while men who break locks for fun assess the resale value of my organs. I grab a glass, fill it from the filter, and swallow half of it in one go. The water tastes metallic and cold enough to ache in my teeth.
“How much did we say?” I ask.
Mysk laughs softly. “We?”
“Fine. How much didyousay I owe, since apparently my participation in this relationship is advisory.”
