Chapter 15
Raven
Raven sat across from his father in the booth, studying the man who'd shaped him and scarred him in equal measure.
The resemblance between them was impossible to ignore—same chiseled jawline, same stare that could slice through steel—but age had thickened Hector's frame, softened the edges of what used to be lean and lethal.
That softness didn't reach his soul.
Raven knew better than anyone what lay beneath the grandfatherly facade.
Hector wore civility like a mask, but his heart had never known tenderness, aside from his mother.
To outsiders, he appeared to be a wise patriarch.
Raven had spent years searching for warmth in his father's eyes and found nothing but cold calculation.
He tapped his fingers against the tabletop, waiting for Hector to speak first. The man had a habit of showing up when Raven least wanted him—like now, with the FBI breathing down their necks and the Kings under scrutiny for the murders.
A father-son catch-up felt less like bonding and more like a trap.
Hector leaned in, voice low and sharp. "So, you're telling me you have no idea who the FBI's looking at for these killings?"
Raven held his gaze, refusing to flinch.
"You expect me to believe something that incriminating—something that could tear down the King's entire organization that puts us under the microscope of the FBI—just slipped past you?"
Raven clenched his jaw. Hector didn't ask questions unless he already knew the answers. He didn't blink. Didn't back off.
"You don't miss things like that," Hector said. "Not unless you're choosing to."
Raven felt the accusation settle between them like a loaded gun. He didn't rise to it. Not yet. But the weight of it pressed against his spine, reminding him that in Hector's world, silence was never neutral—it was strategy.
Raven kept his voice steady, but the edge was there.
"I didn't overlook it, Dad. Someone buried it deep—so deep I didn't even see it until it was shoved in front of me."
He leaned back, jaw tight. "If you're looking for negligence, look somewhere else. Missing a serial killer in our midst wasn't carelessness. It was precision on the killer's part."
Green shimmer flickered under the overhead lights, tugging Raven's attention from the conversation like a whisper in the dark. His gaze locked onto the source—Mynx, moving through the crowd with the kind of grace that made everything else feel loud and clumsy.
She didn't walk. She glided.
Fabric clung to her like a secret, catching light with every shift of her hips. Raven let himself watch, just for a moment. Amid the tension, the looming meeting, the weight pressing against his ribs, she slipped through the cracks of his guarded soul and settled there—quiet, calming, dangerous.
He took in every detail. The curve of Mynx's shoulder. The way her hair caught the light. The look in her eyes said she knew exactly what she was doing.
And he let her in.
She had the nerve to dress like a butterfly—wings of gold shimmering, catching the light, delicate and dangerous all at once. Raven watched her move, each step calculated, each glance a dare. She knew exactly what she was doing.
Damn that woman. She made him feel ravenous every time she entered the room. Not just for her body, but for the chaos she stirred in him—the hunger, the heat, the need to claim and protect and unravel her all at once.
She wasn't just beautiful. She was a provocation. And tonight, she'd chosen to fly.
The need to claim her right here, right now, was driving him mad as he watched her enter the hallway to the dressing rooms. He felt something coil in his chest—not jealousy, not quite.
Possession. The need to stake his claim before the night unraveled into politics and posturing.
Before someone else mistook her grace for availability.
If he wanted to focus on locking down the deal with the Stallions, he needed to talk to her first. To make sure she knew what happened between them in Cabo meant something-- to make it clear he wanted her and that she'd never be available to the other members. Not tonight. Not ever.
She belonged to herself. Raven respected that.
But if she was going to stand beside him, he needed the room to know it.
Needed his father to understand it. It was time for him to act like a Capo.
A true Capo didn't wait for permission to take what he wanted; he took it and dealt with the repercussions later.
Opening nights at Blood Lust never disappointed. The club knew how to deliver spectacle, and its members came hungry for it—hungry for beauty, danger, and the promise of something unforgettable.
Raven had no doubt she'd own the stage. Mynx would walk into the spotlight as if she were born for it, captivating the room with her signature blend of elegance and edge. She didn't just perform—she branded herself with every glance, every movement, every breath.
Tonight mattered. First nights weren't just about applause—they were about power. A performer's debut set the tone, drew attention, and opened doors to money, influence, and protection. Blood Lust didn't hand out second chances.
And Raven knew: if she nailed this, the Members wouldn't just notice. They'd pay attention and want more.
All so Mynx could pay a damn debt that wasn't even hers.
The thing was— he didn't want anyone to pay attention to her. She was his. Before she set foot on that stage, he needed not only to tell her, but also to ensure she wore his intentions for the world to see.
Which she was about to do in just a few minutes.
It was eating Raven alive that he hadn't ended the charade yet.
But he'd been tied up with the details of the deal over the last few days.
That she needed to perform to succeed here, Raven would never let another man touch her without facing his wrath. It was time to take action.
"Raven, did you hear what I said?" Hector asked.
"No, Sorry. What did you say?"
"Get your god damned head in the game, boy. You realize Raul still wants me dead, right? I need you focused if this meeting is going to go the way we want it to."
Raven refused to let his dad's heavy mood ruin the night.
The real challenge was figuring out how to slip away without being noticed, something that required a bit of assertiveness he hoped he could pull off.
His dad had an annoying way of sensing what Raven wanted to do, usually shutting it down without a second thought.
With everything they had going on tonight, it should've been a moment to come together, bridge the gap between them.
Instead, it felt like the one person who was supposed to have his back was hell-bent on keeping him on a leash.
Where was Stoker when he needed him?
He could usually count on him to keep Hector busy while he handled the more delicate situations he wanted to keep his father away from.
Hector raised his glass, the tequila catching the light as he took a slow sip. Raven watched him, noting the deliberate pace—the way his father always made even the smallest gestures feel like a performance. Hector let the burn settle before speaking, voice laced with mock approval.
"I said it's nice to see you can do something right," he drawled, eyes scanning the club with calculated interest. "Place looks primed for another money-making weekend."
He leaned back, satisfied. "I even saw Pierre Le Grange when we arrived. That man doesn't show up unless he's hunting. No doubt a few of our performers will be wearing his mark before he's satisfied."
A full, haunting laugh rolled out of him—low, deliberate, the kind that made people wonder whether they were being praised or warned.
Raven did a lot of things right. But his father would never admit that. It would be like him admitting that he needed help running the Kings. Weaknesses or vulnerabilities were not in the man's nature.
"Pierre's on my shit list," Raven said, his tone flat but loaded. "I saw him last week in Cabo."
Hector raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why's that?"
He met Hector's gaze, steady and unflinching. "Pierre pushed too far. I had to restrict him from the Elysian Fields. The performers recovered," Raven said, voice clipped. "But barely. And not without scars."
Hector swirled his tequila, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "Seems bad for business to keep him out," he said. "And a dangerous place for the Kings to stand. There's a reason we made him an honorary King, Raven. The man's the best mercenary I've ever seen."
He took a slow sip, then let the warning settle. "Be careful with him. Getting on his bad side isn't just risky—it's fatal."
Raven didn't blink. "I'm not afraid of Pierre," he said. "But I'm not stupid either. I'll handle him. My way."
Even he himself liked a little pain with his pleasure; the morbidity of the man's kinks just took it a little too far to be good for business.
Pierre was just one of many who found twisted satisfaction at Blood Lust, but he was one Raven had to keep on a short leash.
The man had influence, money, and a penchant for pushing boundaries—often to the extreme.
Raven had spent more nights than he cared to admit reining him in before things got ugly.
"You don't think he could be the one the FBI's after? The Collector?" Hector asked, his voice low, probing.
Raven didn't hesitate. "He's one of the top suspects on my list. I've got Stoker digging into his whereabouts the night the last girl disappeared."
Hector nodded slowly, the weight of the moment settling between them. "Seems like you're on top of things. Stoker's good. He'll find whoever's behind this. Of that, I'm certain."