My gaze shifts, slow, controlled, tracking without snapping to it.
A woman. Already walking.A few storefronts down, stepping out of the dimmer stretch of the block into the spill of a streetlight. Coat pulled tight, her attention somewhere else entirely.
My body reacts before I decide it should. Not a full shift. Not obvious. Just enough that my weight settles differently over my feet, center of gravity dropping without thought. There. That’s what was off.
Her.
The word doesn’t come like a thought. It lands like recognition. Not soft. Not curious. Sharp. Immediate. Final.
I don’t know her. I don’t need to. I don’t know a single damn thing about her except my body recognizes her before my head can ask why. The feeling doesn’t unfold. It strikes. My fingers flex once at my side. The feeling hits like something locking into place inside me, something that was already there waiting for a target it didn’t have yet. My jaw tightens once.
This isn’t attraction. Attraction is simple. Familiar. Easy to dismiss or lean into. This isn’t that. This is instinct turning its head and fixing on something it’s not letting go of.
She walks closer, unaware, her breath visible in the cold air. There’s nothing careless about her, nothing reckless, just…open. Present in her own world in a way that doesn’t belong on a street like this when something is already sitting in the dark waiting to take advantage of it.
The van doesn’t move. But it changes. The passenger leans forward. The sliding door shifts another inch. Everything sharpens. Distance. Timing. Angle.
My pulse doesn’t jump.It settles.
Men talk about rage like it’s fire, loud and wild and hard to control. That isn’t what happens to me. Fire wastes itself. Fire eats the wrong things when wind shifts. This is not fire.
This is venom.
Cold. Direct. Made for one purpose.
My body reads it before thought finishes. They’re waiting for her. Everything narrows. Distance from me to van. Thirty-two feet. From van to her. Maybe eighteen feet. Two in front. One behind the sliding door. Unknown weapons. No visible firearm. Possible needle. Zip ties. Duct tape. Bag. Doesn’t matter. Hands are enough.
I could call Logan.
I don’t. No time. No need. I roll my shoulders once, letting every muscle loosen until there’s nothing left in me but movement waiting to happen. The deposit bag sits secure inside my cut. Club money. Club business. Logan’s warning rides faint and useless somewhere behind my ribs.We have enough heat.
Yeah. No shit.
Heat’s already here.
The woman slows.
Good girl.
Something in her finally catches up to the air around her. Her head turns slightly, not toward me first, toward the street behind her. She notices the wrongness late, but she notices it. Something in her is catching up.
Too late.
The van door slides open. And everything else stops mattering.Two men come out fast. No hesitation. No warning. One grabs her arm. The other moves for her neck.
My body is already moving. Not thought. Not choice. Movement.
But they’re faster than most. Faster than they should be. The needle lands. Her body jerks.
A sharp sound tears from her throat, cut off almost immediately as whatever they pushed into her system hits hard and fast.
Fuck.
Everything in me goes cold. Then violent.
She tries to pull back, but her strength is already fading, her body not responding the way it should. Her knees buckle slightly, and the man holding her tightens his grip, dragging her toward the van.
No.
