"Then we go to them. Face to face. We make them understand that abandoning our cause was a mistake they will regret."
She hesitates, uncertainty flickering across her features. "Knox, these trade shows are chaotic. Thousands of people, dozens of competing vendors, everyone shouting over each other to be heard. It's not exactly an ideal environment for delicate negotiations."
"Who said anything about delicate?" I gather my briefcase from beside the table, feeling the reassuring weight of steel and strategic documents settle against my palm. "We are at war, First Mate. And sometimes war requires walking directly into the enemy's camp and demanding their surrender."
We arrive at the convention center forty-five minutes later, having fought through traffic that would make even the most hardened Orcish warrior weep with frustration. The building is enormous, a sprawling complex of glass and steel that pulses with the chaotic energy of commerce in its most concentrated form. Banners hang from every available surface, advertising products and services in fonts designed to seize attention through sheer visual aggression. The noise is overwhelming—a cacophony of competing pitches, demonstration videos, and the relentless hum of human conversation that crashes against my ears like waves against a cliff face.
Cypress navigates the crowd with the efficiency of someone who has survived many such events, her small frame slipping through gaps that my larger body cannot hope to pass. I follow in her wake, relying on my height to keep her in view as we push deeper into the exhibition hall, past booths selling everything from industrial machinery to artisanal snacks, until finally she comes to an abrupt halt.
"There." She points toward a booth in the far corner of the hall, a modest display bearing the logo of our wayward supplier. "That's them."
But as I follow her gaze, my blood runs cold with recognition. The booth is not empty—far from it. Surrounding the supplier's representatives like wolves circling prey are a half-dozen figures I recognize immediately. They are not wearing the uniforms of Ashworth Capital, but their bearing and positioning betray their purpose. Hired muscle. Corporate enforcers. Goons in expensive suits, standing guard over their master's ill-gotten prize.
And there, at the center of the pack, wearing a smile that makes my fingers itch for violence—the rival CEO himself, Victor Ashworth, shaking hands with our supplier like they are old friends sealing a bargain.
"Knox. We might have a problem."
7
CYPRESS
The chaos of the trade show floor fades to background static as I watch Victor Ashworth's smug face, his perfectly manicured hand clasped around our supplier's in what looks like the closing handshake of a done deal. My stomach drops somewhere around my knees, and for a moment I consider the very real possibility that we've already lost this battle before it even began.
But then I feel Knox shift beside me, his frame radiating fire and barely contained violence, and something in my brain clicks from panic mode into pure, cold calculation. This is what I do. This is what I've always done—find the angle, work the numbers, outmaneuver the opposition with data instead of brute force. The only difference now is that I have six-foot-eight of green muscle backing me up instead of a passive-aggressive email chain.
"Give me your tablet." I don't even look at Knox as I hold out my hand, my eyes fixed on Ashworth and his goons like a hawk tracking prey.
Knox doesn't question me. He simply reaches into his briefcase and produces the tablet we'd been using for ourstrategy sessions, pressing it into my palm with a grunt of approval that sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine. Now is absolutely not the time for my body to be reacting to his proximity, so I shove that feeling down into the same mental box where I keep my student loan anxiety and my complicated feelings about my mother's passive-aggressive holiday cards.
"Follow me. And look intimidating."
"I always look intimidating." There's a note of genuine confusion in him, as if I've just asked him to breathe or blink.
"More intimidating. Like you're considering which of their bones would make the best trophy."
A low rumble of amusement vibrates through him. "First Mate, you are developing a warrior's instincts."
I don't have time to process the warm glow that compliment ignites in me because I'm already moving, cutting through the crowd with Knox at my back like a battleship following a determined tugboat. People part around us—around him, really—their conversations trailing off into startled silence as they catch sight of the Orc in the Italian three-piece suit advancing with obvious purpose. By the time we reach the supplier's booth, every pair of eyes in a twenty-foot radius has turned our direction, and Ashworth's expression has shifted from smug satisfaction to wary calculation.
"Bloodaxe." He says Knox's name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "I wasn't aware you were attending the expo. Bit below your pay grade, isn't it? Rubbing elbows with the common vendors?"
"I go where the battle demands." Knox is so loud I see two of the goons actually take an involuntary step backward. "Unlike some, who send lesser warriors to do their conquering while they hide behind paper shields."
Ashworth's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a crack in his polished facade that sends a spike of satisfaction through me.But he recovers quickly, spreading his hands in a gesture of false magnanimity that makes me want to throw my tablet at his perfect teeth.
"There's no battle here, Bloodaxe. Just good business. Mr. Patterson and I were simply discussing the benefits of a long-term exclusive partnership." He gestures to the supplier—a nervous-looking man in his fifties with thinning hair and sweat stains spreading beneath his arms. "Ashworth Capital takes care of its partners. Something you might learn, if you weren't so busy playing at corporate warfare."
I step forward before Knox can respond, positioning myself directly between the two CEOs with my tablet raised like a shield. "Mr. Patterson. Before you finalize anything with Ashworth Capital, I think you should take a look at some numbers."
Ashworth's goons shift, their attention snapping to me like I've just pulled a weapon, but Knox moves with them. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The simple fact of his presence—the way his shoulders roll with barely contained power, the way his ringed tusks catch the light like ceremonial armor, the way his eyes sweep over the assembled muscle with the bored assessment of a predator evaluating whether these particular prey are worth the effort of killing—keeps them rooted in place like their expensive shoes have been nailed to the convention center floor.
"I don't think that's necessary," Ashworth says smoothly, but I'm already pulling up the spreadsheet I've been building for the past week, the one that maps out every contract, every payment, every delivery schedule associated with Ashworth Capital's supply chain acquisitions.
"Mr. Patterson, your current contract with our company guarantees you net sixty payment terms and flexible order volumes based on quarterly demand projections. You've neverhad a late payment from us. Not once in seven years of partnership." I turn the tablet so Patterson can see the screen, highlighting the relevant data with quick taps of my finger. "Ashworth Capital, on the other hand, has a documented history of extending payment terms to net ninety—sometimes net one-twenty—for new suppliers during their 'onboarding period.' Which, based on public SEC filings, tends to last approximately eighteen months."
Patterson's eyes widen slightly, his gaze darting between my tablet and Ashworth's increasingly rigid smile. The goons are getting restless, shuffling their weight and exchanging glances that suggest they're not entirely sure how to handle a five-foot-four woman with a spreadsheet and absolutely zero fear in her.
"That's a gross mischaracterization of our payment policies," Ashworth says, but I'm already swiping to the next screen.
