Chapter Twelve
ROXY
The Next Morning
The dining hall feels like stepping into a gladiator arena where the weapons are judgment, and the shields are made of pure stubborn will.
I walk in unchained, the absence of steel around my wrists both liberating and terrifying in equal measure.
Every set of eyes tracks my movement as I cross to the long table where the brothers gather for meals, their conversations dying mid-sentence while they process the reality of me sitting among them like I actually belong here.
But I don’t belong here.
We all know it.
But Raze’s word carries enough weight that they’ll tolerate my presence even if they’d rather feed me to whatever nightmare lurks in the basement than share breakfast.
Maul occupies the head of the table closest to me, his werewolf bulk making the chair beneath him look like children’s furniture.
Dark eyes track my approach with the kind of assessment that calculates threat level and usefulness in the same glance.
Beside him, Flux shifts restlessly, his form flickering between human and something vaguely feline before settling back into skin that looks uncomfortable, containing whatever he truly is.
Scar lounges at the far end with that casual elegance that belies the predator coiled beneath designer clothes, red eyes gleaming with interest that makes my survival instincts scream warnings I’ve learned to ignore.
Wreck stands in the shadows near the door, not eating, just existing in that unsettling way that suggests he’s feeding on something invisible to human senses.
The prospects cluster at the opposite end of the room, Rhett’s shadows clinging unnaturally close while Bennett’s divine presence makes the air shimmer with light that has no business existing in a windowless space.
They’re arguing again, voices carrying across stone with the comfortable ease of beings who’ve been annoying each other since before indoor plumbing.
Rhett folds his arms, still in human form, but somehow with a tail flicking irritably. “I’m just saying, blasting choir music at six in the morning is psychological warfare.”
“It’s called harmony,” Bennett snaps, light flaring brighter around his shoulders. “Some of us don’t need screaming guitars and lyrics about arson to start the day.”
“Those lyrics are expression,” Rhett shoots back. “And at least my playlists don’t sound like they’re trying to summon God’s middle management.”
Bennett scoffs. “Coming from a hellhound whose idea of ambience is growling and the sound of chains dragging across stone?”
“Hey!” Rhett bares his teeth in a grin. “Chains have rhythm. You wouldn’t know good music if it descended from the heavens and smacked you with a harp.”
“That’s rich!” Bennett fires back. “At least Heaven doesn’t smell like wet dog and brimstone.”
“Children!” Scar’s voice cuts through the room like silk over steel, calm and lethal, carrying just enough authority to make both prospects freeze mid-glare.
“The lady is attempting to eat. Kindly suspend your eternal roommate dispute, or I will be forced to remind you why I am older, faster, and profoundly unimpressed by either of you.”
Rhett mutters, “He started it.”
Bennett mutters back, “You exist to torment me.”
Scar smiles pleasantly while I slide into an empty seat between Maul and Flux, my hands trembling slightly as I reach for the coffee pot that sits steaming in the center of the table.
The ceramic is warm beneath my fingers, grounding and real in ways that make the supernatural chaos surrounding me feel almost manageable.
Maul slides a plate of food across the table without looking at me, the gesture mechanical and efficient rather than kind.
Scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon that’s probably been sitting under heat lamps for the past hour.
It’s not gourmet, but it’s hot, plentiful, and significantly better than the rations delivered to my room during the time I spent chained in darkness.
“Thanks,” I murmur, the word barely audible over the resumed conversations flowing around me like I’m a rock they’ve all decided to navigate past rather than acknowledge directly.
“Don’t thank me.” Maul’s voice carries the same neutral tone he uses when discussing ledgers and financial statements. “You’re under the prez’s protection. That means you eat with us whether we like it or not. Doesn’t mean we have to pretend this is normal.”
Fair enough.
I dig into the eggs with focus that suggests genuine hunger rather than nervous energy needing an outlet.
The brothers resume their conversations, voices rising and falling in patterns that feel almost ritualistic, discussing territory, shipments, and problems I’m only beginning to understand the full scope of.
Flux leans closer, his amber eyes studying me with curiosity that makes my skin prickle. “You find anything else interesting in those ledgers? Besides the smuggling route optimization you mentioned?”
The question catches me off guard, genuine interest bleeding through the professional distance he maintains with everyone except Raze. I swallow a mouthful of coffee before answering, buying time to organize thoughts that scatter under the weight of so many predators watching my response.
“Actually… yeah.” I pull a small notebook from my jacket pocket, pages filled with observations I’ve been cataloging since Raze gave me access to the club’s financial records.
“Your cryptocurrency transfers… the ones routing through the offshore accounts. You’re losing about half a million annually to exchange rate manipulation that could be avoided if you structured the transfers differently. ”
Silence crashes down over the table like a physical weight.
Every brother turns to stare at me with expressions ranging from shock to barely contained fury that I just called out a problem in their operation, that I had the audacity to suggest improvements instead of keeping my mouth shut and staying grateful for the privilege of breathing.
Flux snatches the notebook from my hands with speed that makes me flinch, his eyes scanning my notes with intensity that suggests he’s looking for errors, for proof that I’m talking out of my ass instead of actually understanding the complexities of money laundering through supernatural channels.
His expression shifts as he reads, calculation replacing hostility as he processes what I’ve outlined.
“Holy fuck. She’s right. The exchange timing is off by just enough that we’re hemorrhaging money every single transfer.
” He looks up at Maul, something like respect flickering across his features before disappearing behind professional neutrality.
“This would save us five hundred grand annually. Minimum.”
Maul’s jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he grinds his teeth together in what might be frustration or might be grudging acknowledgment that the human prisoner just proved herself more valuable than any of them wanted to admit. “And you figured this out how?”
“I used to work in finance.” The confession escapes before I can stop it, truth spilling out in the face of direct questioning.
“Before photography. Before I decided that corporate America was slowly killing my soul. I spent three years managing offshore accounts for clients who didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t volunteer answers.
So, yeah, I know how cryptocurrency transfers work.
And yours are structured inefficiently enough that any decent auditor would flag them immediately. ”
“Any decent auditor.” Scar’s voice carries amusement from across the table, his smile widening into something that shows too many teeth.
“But we don’t attract decent auditors. We attract those who are either corrupt enough to ignore obvious problems or stupid enough not to see them. Present company excluded, apparently.”
The compliment lands awkwardly, wrapped in mockery and genuine respect that I don’t know how to parse.
I duck my head, returning attention to my breakfast with a focus that suggests I’m done contributing to conversations that make me feel exposed and vulnerable despite the protection Raze has supposedly extended.
The meal continues in relative silence, tension bleeding away as the brothers accept my presence with the same pragmatic efficiency they apply to every other uncomfortable truth.
By the time plates are cleared and coffee cups refilled, I’ve almost convinced myself that this might become routine, that eating with predators who could tear me apart might become normal if I keep proving useful enough to warrant breathing.
Then Thorn materializes from the shadows near the door, his bark-covered form blending with the stone walls until he steps into the light and becomes something vaguely humanoid rather than just ambient darkness.
Branches sprout from his shoulders, thorns catching fluorescent glow as he moves toward the table with that rustling sound leaves make when disturbed by wind.
“We have a problem.” His voice carries the weight of ancient forests, deep and resonant, and impossible to ignore. “The fae gang. They’re making moves on Eastern territory again. But this time, they’re not testing the waters. They’re claiming territory, trying to take what’s ours.”
The temperature in the room drops so fast that I see my breath fog white.
Every brother’s posture shifts simultaneously, relaxation transforming into coiled violence as they process what Thorn just stated.
Maul’s hands curl into fists on the table, claws extending slightly before he forces them back under control.
Flux’s form flickers between human and predator so rapidly that I can’t track the transitions.
Even Scar’s casual elegance hardens into something deadly, red eyes glowing brighter as fangs descend past his lower lip.