One night can be buried. Two becomes a habit. A habit becomes a pattern, and patterns get noticed. If Canon ever found out how I spend my nights when I’m desperate enough to become honest, whatever fragile place I still have inside the Rogues would vanish. Varina would look at me differently. The men downstairs would laugh until laughter became permission. My father wouldn’t rage, which would almost be easier. He’d just stare at me with that same flat disappointment and decide, finally, that usefulness has limits.
So I won’t go back.
But God help me, I miss the way he made me feel.
Saint
CanonWardhasbeentalking for nearly half an hour, long enough that Moth has checked his watch twice, Bricks has started tapping two fingers against his knee, and the ash on Sol’s cigar has burned down to a stubborn gray inch he hasn’t bothered to knock loose. My father is sitting at the head of our side of the table with his silence laid out in front of him like another weapon, letting Canon fill the room with all the words men reach for when they’re trying to make need sound like choice.
Across from me, Varina Ward hasn’t touched the glass of water someone put in front of her. She’s just there with her shoulders squared and her dark hair pulled back from her face, eyes fixed somewhere between my father and hers while Canontalks around her like she’s already been signed over with the corridor routes and revenue percentages.
Her jaw has been locked since the first mention of marriage, but she hasn’t interrupted him once. That restraint tells me more than her expression does. Canon thinks he’s offering Obsidian a weapon wrapped in family blood, but Varina looks like someone who’s spent her whole life becoming sharp enough to survive being handed over.
I don’t want her in my house, my bed, my business, or close enough to mistake proximity for influence. She’ll come into Obsidian with Rogue pride under her nails and Canon’s training in her spine, testing every line she finds because people like her don’t trust boundaries until they’ve made them bleed. I can already picture the conversation after the ink dries: me telling her which doors stay shut, which rooms she doesn’t enter, which men answer to me no matter what ring sits on her finger. She can smile when optics require it and stand beside me when the alliance needs proof of unity, but she won’t touch XR3, won’t ask for lab locations, won’t go around Moth, and won’t bring Rogue habits into my clubhouse expecting me to find them charming.
Canon spreads one hand over the contract packet. “Corridor pressure has increased on both sides. Pretending otherwise would insult everyone at this table. The Rogues have held territory along the eastern routes for eighteen years. We know the roads, the county sheriffs, the bars where loose mouths start moving before men with badges do. Obsidian has product worth protecting. We have bodies built for that work.”
Bricks lets out a low sound that almost becomes a laugh. “That’s a fancy way of saying you need cash.”
One of the Rogues near Canon’s left shoulder shifts forward. Rook, if I’m matching the file to the face correctly. “Watch your mouth.”
Bricks looks at him, a wiry smile creeping onto his face. “Found it just fine.”
“Enough,” Sol grounds out.
Bricks settles back, still smiling, and Rook stays tense until Canon cuts him a sideways look. The rest of the room breathes around the interruption, every patched man recalculating how far a joke can travel before it becomes an insult worth blood. I don’t move. I let the Rogues feel how little their tension changes my pulse.
Canon turns his attention back to my father. “We need revenue, and you need security. There’s no shame in a clean exchange.”
“There’s shame in pretending it’s equal,” I say.
The room stills enough for everyone’s breathing to be heard again. Canon’s eyes move to me, irritation tightening the skin around them, and Varina finally looks directly at my face instead of through me. I lean back in my chair and let the silence sit a moment longer than necessary.
Canon says, “That a concern, or are you just getting tired of listening?”
“I was tired ten minutes ago. My concern is whether your men can protect a corridor that’s already leaking.”
Rook’s chair scrapes. “You calling us weak?”
“I’m calling you hit.” My gaze moves across the Rogue side of the table slowly enough to make every man there feel inventoried. “Three shipments in four months. Two federal seizures. A warehouse fire blamed on wiring because saying sabotage out loud would make your lower ranks nervous. I don’t care about your pride. I care whether you can keep Obsidian product out of federal evidence lockers.”
Varina’s interest sharpens as her father’s mouth tightens because he knows I’m right and hates that I’m saying them in front of his people. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Moth did the homework. I read it.”
Moth doesn’t look up from the tablet in front of him. “Their internal losses are consistent with route exposure rather than incompetence. The corridor still has value if we restructure escort patterns, restrict information flow, and limit handoff visibility to designated riders.”
Bricks snorts. “That’s Moth-speak for they’re fucked but useful.”
Varina’s eyes slide to him. “You always let him translate business like a bar fight?”
Her voice is lower than I expected, rougher too, with a controlled edge that’s probably made plenty of men mistake her patience for weakness right before she proved them stupid. Bricks turns his grin on her like he’s found a new toy.
“Only when I’m bored,” he says.
“And are you?”
“Less now.”
