Chapter 7
We waited in the hallway for what felt like hours, though only thirty minutes had passed. Every minute throbbed with quiet tension. The muffled hum of music from the club floor drifted upward, a disconnected soundtrack to the heartbreak happening behind the suite door.
Jana paced for a while, then slipped down the stairs to the main level.
“I’ll tell Ginger to have someone fill Dad’s spot,” she’d said softly.
“He’s in no state to go onstage.” Her eyes had been glassy, and she moved quickly, as if afraid breaking into a run would make the whole building collapse under the weight of everything that was unraveling.
Con stayed by the doorway, long arms folded, gaze fixed on the carpet like he could read future attacks in the fibers.
Every so often he shifted his weight, restless energy rolling off him.
He hated waiting almost as much as I did—but unlike me, he handled the stillness like a soldier on silent watch.
Raven hovered near me, her arms wrapped around herself. Through our bond, her fear pulsed like a low thrum beneath the surface, too familiar now, too constant. Every pulse tasted of worry for Rene, for their bond weakening, for the time bleeding out faster than we could replace it.
After several minutes, she whispered, “I can’t feel him very well anymore.”
The ache in her voice hit me like a blow to the ribs.
I laid a hand on hers. “He’s still there. Just weak.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Weak is too close to gone.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Not with the truth lodged so tightly at the base of my throat.
The hallway lamp flickered overhead. The smell of cologne drifted from the lower floor, mingling with the warm scent of old wood and the tang of glitter glue from the drag performers’ dressing rooms. It felt surreal, waiting for a supernatural auction update in a club where neon feathers, sequins, and fake lashes were part of the air itself.
But tonight, the sparkle wasn’t enough to lift even a corner of the tension anchoring us.
At the thirty-minute mark, the suite door finally opened.
Marcus stepped out.
His face didn’t hold the smooth, polished charm he’d walked in with earlier.
That veneer was stripped away, leaving raw exhaustion behind.
His eyes were red at the edges, his cheeks flushed, his breath uneven like he’d spent the past half hour breaking apart and trying very hard not to let Isra see too much of it.
He looked… gutted.
And he didn’t try to hide it anymore.
“He wants to see you,” Marcus told Raven. His voice was quiet, rough. “He’s—he’s not angry. Not anymore.” He swallowed hard. “Just hurt.”
Raven reached for my hand instinctively, steadying herself as much as she steadied me. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Marcus nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to say more.
He lingered for a moment, almost as if he wanted to apologize to Con or to me, but whatever words he might have offered evaporated. He gave us a final look, one full of remorse and fear and a fragile, desperate determination, then turned and swept down the stairs with long, quick strides.
When his footsteps faded, Raven squeezed my hand once, then reached for the suite door.
“Ready?” she asked.
“I’m right behind you,” I said.
Con stayed close as we followed her inside.
The moment the door clicked shut behind us, the atmosphere swallowed us whole.
Isra sat on the sofa nearest the window. The bright makeup that normally amplified his expressive features was smeared in soft lines beneath his eyes, like watercolor running down a painted canvas. He had wiped away tears at least a dozen times, and the aftermath painted a heartbreaking picture.
Still beautiful.
Still Isra.
But fragile in a way I had never seen before.
Raven flew to him instantly, dropping to her knees beside the couch and wrapping her arms around him.
He folded into her embrace like someone who had held themselves together too long and finally ran out of strength.
I stayed back with Con, giving them space but remaining close enough to listen.
Isra’s breath was shaky against Raven’s shoulder.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered.
Raven stroked the back of his head. “I know.”
“He lied to me,” Isra said, his voice cracking. “Not about loving me. I felt that through every moment. But about the things that matter. The things that can break us. How do I trust him again?”
Raven pressed her forehead gently against his temple. “One step at a time.”
Isra let out a trembling laugh. “You sound like Rene.”
She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the hug. “He always knows what to say.”
“So do you,” Isra murmured.
Raven’s breath caught on a soft sob she tried to swallow. I felt it through the bond—a spike of grief and fear intense enough to make my own chest tighten.
He pulled back slightly, cupping her cheek with glitter-covered fingertips. “Raven… don’t lose him. Don’t you dare lose him.”
She closed her eyes as tears escaped, carving shining tracks down her pale skin. “I’m trying,” she whispered. “But he’s slipping away. I can feel it.”
Isra looked at her with such tenderness it broke something inside me. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong,” she said, shaking her head.
“You don’t have to feel it,” Isra replied. “You just have to believe it.”
Raven let out a breath that sounded like a prayer and a surrender all at once. She wiped at her cheeks, leaving streaks of glitter in the process, and rested her forehead against Isra’s again.
“I can’t lose him,” she said, voice cracking.
“Then you won’t,” Isra whispered. “Cass and Con will find the piece. And if Marcus can help, he will.”
Raven pulled back slightly and studied her best friend. “And you? Will you be all right?”
Isra blinked, looking down at his trembling hands. “I… I don’t know.”
“Then we’re here until you are,” she said with conviction.
Isra shook his head. “No. You need sleep. And you need to take care of Rene. I’ll talk to Marcus again later. After the shock settles.”
“You sure?” I asked.
His gaze lifted to mine. “I’m sure. But thank you.”
His voice was soft but clear, the kind of tone that meant he had cried himself into a fragile, temporary calm.
Raven rested a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever happens… you’re not alone.”
Isra gave a tired smile. “I know.”
Con stepped forward then, placing a hand gently on Isra’s forearm. “We will protect all of you. Marcus included, if he deserves it.”
Isra looked at him and nodded. “He does. He made mistakes. Big ones. But he’s not Dimitri.”
I sighed. “No. But his hands aren’t clean either.”
“None of ours are,” Isra replied, a hint of humor flickering weakly. “Especially yours, Cass.”
I let out a breath that might have been a laugh if the moment weren’t so heavy. “Fair enough.”
Isra reached over and rested his hand on mine. “Just find the pieces. Save Rene. Save all of us. After that… I’ll decide what to do with Marcus.”
Raven straightened, wiping her face, then smoothing Isra’s hair in a gesture that reminded me just how long their friendship had endured heartbreaks, triumphs, and every messy thing between.
“I’ll check on Rene,” she whispered.
Isra nodded.
She glanced at me, silently asking if I was ready to leave. My chest was tight, but I nodded back.
We stepped toward the door, Con already reaching for the handle.
Behind us, Isra cleared his throat. “Cass?”
I turned.
He looked exhausted, his gown still sparkling under the dim lights.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For helping. For not giving up.”
I nodded. “I won’t. None of us will.”
Raven squeezed his hand, promising silently what she couldn’t put into words.
Then we left the suite, closing the door gently behind us.
The hallway felt colder now. Heavy. The next steps of our mission waited for us outside this club, in the uncertainty of encrypted networks and hidden sellers.
But one truth was clear and unyielding—
Rene was dying.
Time was vanishing.
And the only way forward was through this heartbreak.
The walk down the stairs was fraught with tension.
Raven stayed quiet at my side, her jaw tight, eyes turned inward as if she were listening to something far away. Con led the way, broad shoulders cutting a path toward the stairwell, boots making dull thuds against the worn carpet.
When we reached the top of the stairs, the muffled thump of bass rose up to meet us. The glow from below pulsed against the walls, pink and blue and gold. Club Spice was alive, oblivious, while Isra’s world was cracking.
Raven paused at the threshold.
“I need a minute with Jana,” she murmured. “She’s behind the bar. Will you wait by the doors?”
“Of course,” I said.
Con gave a short nod. “We’ll stay here.”
Raven touched my wrist briefly, gratitude and strain flickering through our bond, then started down the stairs. The sequins scattered across her dark top caught the light as she descended, tiny reflections dancing over the stairwell walls.
We followed her down at a slower pace, hanging back as she pushed through the door that led to the main floor.
The club greeted us with a rush of sound and color.
Music pounded through the speakers, lights spun in slow patterns over the crowd, and the air smelled of perfume, spilled drinks, and a hint of stage makeup.
Ginger was off the stage now; a different queen performed in a sleek silver gown, leading the crowd in a sing-along.
Laughter and applause drowned out the ache upstairs.
Raven threaded through the crowd toward the long polished bar along the far wall, where Jana stood in a fitted black vest and white shirt, hair pulled into a loose knot at the back of her head.
She was pouring a drink while chatting with a pair of regulars, but the moment she caught sight of her mother, her smile faltered.
Raven slipped behind the side panel of the bar with Jana, vanishing into the dimmer light near the shelves of liquor and glass racks.