Page 4 of Property of Scar

Flux shows up at my elbow like he always does, and somehow already where I need him before I ask. “Raze wants everyone upstairs. Club meeting.”

I nod once and drop the towel before walking out of the fighting pit.

A VP’s job is never done.

***

The back halls of the club are a different world from the pit. Down there, it’s noise, heat, and the theater of violence. Up here, it’s cold concrete, fluorescent light, and the quiet, grounding smell of leather and oil, a space built for control, not spectacle. I pass through the storage corridor where crates are stacked floor to ceiling, each one labeled with the name of a liquor distributor that processes less liquor than it does everything else.

Coil stands at the far end beside Maul, both of them hunched over paperwork built to keep customs blind and happy. The manifest tells a clean story, legal cargo, nothing worth looking at twice.

Bullshit, obviously.

Coil’s serpent eyes track me as I walk past, his voice smooth when he speaks, calm enough to make people miss how dangerous he really is. “We’re moving the Seelie relics tomorrow night. Buyer’s paying triple.”

“Make sure the paperwork’s clean,” I state, without stopping. “I don’t want heat.”

Behind me, a crate crashes to the floor, followed by an argument loud enough to turn heads.

“I’m just saying…” Rhett grunts, hauling something he clearly thinks is beneath him, “… if heaven’s so great, why’d they need walls?”

“Security.” Bennett doesn’t even sound strained. “Something hell wouldn’t understand, since it’s basically an open-concept nightmare.”

“Open-concept is modern design, Feathers.”

“Drop the crates…” I say, “… not the IQ points. Move it!” and keep walking down the hall.

The main room is packed wall to wall, thick with the kind of crowd that only shows up when the people in charge are all under the same roof. Brothers crowd the bar. Club girls own the couches and tables like queens holding court. Prospects hover around the edges, trying way too hard to look relaxed while they wait for someone to bark their next order.

Raze is sprawled across the sofa with Roxy tucked against his side, his hand resting on her thigh like it belongs there and always has. They’re talking low enough that the rest of the room disappears around them. Something quiet passes between them, something private, then Roxy laughs suddenly, as if the sound catches her by surprise.

And Raze…

Fuck.

His whole face shifts when he looks at her, stripped down in a way I’ve never seen in all the centuries I’ve known him.

He looks content.

Her fingers are moving in her lap, small sparks jumping between them like static that’s learned to dance. Magic, she’s still learning the shape of, still coaxing it into something she can trust. And Raze is watching those sparks, like they are the most important thing in the room.

Something tight twists in my chest at the sight of them. I shove it down on instinct before it can grow teeth, burying it under five centuries of bad habits and things better left untouched.

Rhett appears behind me and lobs a peanut that lands precisely between the two of them. “Get a room!”

Bennett looks pained. “Please get a room. Some of us have eyes and would like to keep them pure.”

“Since when do you care about purity?” Rhett’s voice is the definition of unhelpful. “You literally incinerated a guy last week.”

“That was divine judgment. It’s completely different.”

“Sure. And when I do it, it’s ‘excessive violence.’ ”

I turn just enough for them to catch my eyes—red and cold—the same shade that’s been followed by blood and bad decisions for the last five hundred years. “Children… the next word out of either mouth had better be useful, or you’re both on toilet duty for a month.”

They stop.

Across the room, Raze flips us all off without looking away from Roxy, while she grins into his shoulder.