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Across the room, Ghost drifts down the length of the bar, a rag in his hand as he wipes the counter in slow, even strokes. He remains calm, but he tracks the intruder as if assessing a predator from a distance.

The intruder stumbles farther into the room. “Bring him out here! He can’t hide from this!”

“Stay here,” Orien instructs before he stands in one fluid movement.

My hand drops to the knife tucked into my shoe, fingers already curling around the grip, but Orien touches my wrist before I can draw it, the single point of contact stopping me cold.

“Stay put,” he repeats. “Don’t get involved.”

He doesn’t tell me to leave with the others, and that distinction rings through me, as if my presence is assumed. As if I belong here, bearing witness.

I release the knife, and Orien turns toward the bar.

The intruder stands with his back to us, still shouting at the empty room, and Orien moves with unhurried confidence toward him.

“Hey,” he calls. “You need to calm down.”

The man wheels around, wild-eyed and flushed with either alcohol or rage. Probably both. “I need to see Rowan, not his fucking guard dog.”

Orien stops with several feet still between them, his hands loose at his sides. “Rowan’s not here right now. What do you need?”

The man takes a swaying step forward. “You know why I’m here. My friend is missing. He was supposed to meet me yesterday. He hasn’t answered his phone. No one’s seen him since he came here to talk to your boss.”

Orien doesn’t move. “Does your friend have a name?”

“Don’t fucking play with me.” The man takes another step. Sweat beads on his forehead, and a tremor runs through his hands. “He took money that wasn’t his, and now he’s gone. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“He took money from who?” Orien asks, still calm.

“From the kids!” the man shouts. “From the fucking after-school program. Twenty grand, gone, and my friend with it.” His hand drifts toward his waistband, movements unsteady. “I can accept Rowan taking it back, but he doesn’t get to keep the interest.”

My body tenses, muscles readying for movement, but I force myself to stay seated. This isn’t my fight. These aren’t my people.

No matter how much I might wish otherwise.

The man’s hand disappears under his jacket, and Orien shifts his stance a fraction. “Listen. If you’ve got a problem with Rowan, you should come back when he’s here. We’ll talk it through.”

“I’m done talking,” the man snarls and pulls a gun.

Ghost knocks a glass off the bar, and the sudden crack of it hitting the floor jerks the man’s attention to the side for half a second. Orien strikes, his palm connecting with the man’s throat. The gun fires as it flies from the man’s hand, the shot going wide into the ceiling before the weapon skitters across the floor to stop beneath an empty table. The man crumples to the floor, clutching his throat as he struggles to breathe.

Orien bends, grabs the man by the ankle, and drags him toward the back hallway. “Everyone, get back to work. Nothing to see here.”

No one moves to help him. No one flinches at the violence, the gunshot, or the man being hauled away like garbage. They just wait until Orien disappears through the secured door with his burden.

Then, the band starts playing again while Ghost cleans up the fallen glass, dropping the pieces into a small bin behind the bar. The chess players reappear, resetting their board, and they pick up where they left off while a server brings them fresh drinks.

I cross the lounge to the bar and slide onto a stool beside Ash, who’s working through a plate of food, a timer counting down beside his elbow.

As I settle beside him, he keeps cutting his steak into perfectly even pieces, each bite the same size as the last, without acknowledging my presence. Steak isn’t even on the menu, which means he brought the food in from outside, or the limited kitchen made it special for him as Rowan’s mate.

Probably the latter.

Distracted as I’d been by the altercation, it hadn’t escaped my notice how he never flinched, as though more concerned about finishing dinner before the timer ended than about getting shot.

“You got a minute?” I ask, flagging down Ghost for another whiskey.

“Twenty-three.” Ash checks his timer. “And forty seconds.”