4. Zaria #2
"Zaria." Dante stands as I approach, old-school manners that I appreciate. He's in his fifties, gray threading through dark hair, eyes that have seen decades of this life. "Good timing. I wanted to talk about those northern routes Vaughn mentioned."
"What about them?"
"The Okafors are getting bolder. They've been asking questions at the port, feeling out our suppliers. If we don't show strength soon?—"
"We will. But on our terms, not theirs." I slide into the booth across from him.
"I'm not starting a war because they're asking questions.
But I'm also not letting them think weakness.
We're increasing patrols, reinforcing presence.
If they cross an actual line, we respond.
Otherwise, we let them wonder and worry. "
Dante nods slowly. "Your father would approve. He always said reactive violence is expensive violence."
"Exactly. So tell Vaughn to keep his head on straight and his finger off the trigger unless I give the word."
"Will do." He leans back, studying me with something like pride. "You're handling this well. Better than a lot of people expected."
"Because I'm young or because I'm a woman?"
"Both. But they're learning fast that you're neither weak nor inexperienced."
The compliment settles warm in my chest, validation from someone whose opinion actually matters. "I learned from the best."
"That you did." He raises his glass. "To Malcolm. May his daughter continue making him proud."
I touch my glass to his, and we drink.
Then movement by the door catches my attention, and my entire focus narrows.
Greer.
He's scanning the crowd, clearly looking for someone—for me, I realize with a jolt that's equal parts irritation and something far more dangerous.
He's dressed differently tonight. Gone is the crisp button-down and polished look.
Instead he's wearing dark jeans that actually fit, a henley that shows off lean muscle, boots instead of those ridiculous office shoes.
He looks... good. Rougher. Less private school, more genuinely dangerous.
And I hate that I notice. Hate that my pulse kicks up as I watch him move through the space with growing confidence, like he's starting to actually belong here instead of just visiting.
"You listening?" Dante's voice pulls me back.
"Yeah, sorry. What?"
"I asked if you needed anything else from the senior crew. Support, backup, anything."
"No, I'm good. But I appreciate it." I'm distracted now, tracking Greer as he heads toward the bar, my conversation with Dante suddenly secondary even though I know it shouldn't be.
Dante follows my gaze, sees what—who—I'm looking at. His expression shifts, protective and wary. "Friend of yours?"
"Something like that."
"Be careful with civilians, Zaria. They're more trouble than they're worth."
"So I've been told." I stand, making excuses. "I'll catch up with you later, yeah?"
"Sure. Be smart."
I'm not being smart. I know I'm not. But I'm moving through the crowd toward Greer anyway, pulled by something I can't quite name.
Then Cain appears out of nowhere, cutting off Greer's path to the bar.
Fuck.
I'm too far away to hear what they're saying, but I can read body language. Cain's posture is challenging, aggressive in that way he gets when he's trying to intimidate someone. Greer's face hardens, shoulders pulling back, meeting the challenge instead of backing down.
This is going to go badly.
I push through the crowd faster, catching fragments of their conversation as I get closer.
"—not trying to start shit," Cain's saying, his voice loud enough to carry. "Just suggesting that maybe you should go home and forget all about places like this. Forget all about her."
Greer's expression goes cold. "How about you mind your own business?"
"She is my business. I'm trying to keep you alive, which she's apparently not interested in doing."
"I shove between them, palming Cain's chest hard enough to make him step back. "Stay out of this."
Cain raises his hands, mockingly innocent. "Just looking out for your boyfriend here. Trying to give him some friendly advice."
"He's not my boyfriend." The words come out sharper than intended.
"Could've fooled me, the way he watches you like?—"
"Cain. Leave."
For a second, I think he might push back. Then he grins, that asshole expression that means he's enjoying this way too much. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you when this goes sideways."
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with Greer, who's radiating tension like a live wire.
"Friend of yours?" His voice is rough, dangerous. Jealous.
Oh. Oh.
"Yeah. And nothing more, not that it's your business."
Greer steps closer, eliminating space, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that should probably scare me but doesn't. "Everything about you is my business."
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat through my stomach, unexpected and unwelcome. This is what Cain was talking about—this isn't casual interest or bored curiosity. This is something darker, more consuming.
Something that matches the way I think about him way too often.
"That right?" I let mockery edge into my voice, defensive armor. "You staking a claim now, private school?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Make me."
His jaw tightens, and I can see him fighting for control. The Greer from three weeks ago would've backed down, would've deflected with humor or logic. This version holds his ground, lets the anger and jealousy show.
I should shut this down. Should push him away, make it clear that whatever he thinks is happening here isn't. Should be the responsible one since he's clearly not going to be.
Instead, I step closer, invading his space the way I always do, except this time feels different. Charged.
"Cain's my friend. Known him since we were kids. He's like a brother, annoyingly protective and way too involved in my business. That satisfy your territorial bullshit?"
"No."
"Too bad." But I'm lying and we both know it. Something about seeing Greer jealous, seeing him lose that careful control, makes me want to push harder. "You got no right to?—"
"I know I don't." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I know I'm nobody to you. Just some guy who can't take a hint. But that doesn't change the fact that I can't stop thinking about you. That I'm here every night hoping to see you. That watching some other guy put his hands on you makes me want to?—"
He cuts himself off, breathing hard, and I realize my heart is racing.
This is dangerous. This is exactly what I was afraid of.
But I don't step back.
My eyes drag over him—the henley, the jeans, the boots, the whole aesthetic shift that says he's trying to fit into this world instead of just observing it. And I realize I don't like it as much as I thought I would.
When he was buttoned-up and clean-cut, there was something satisfying about being the one corrupting him. About pulling him into darkness and watching him unravel. This version, where he's already halfway there, where he's meeting me in the shadows instead of being dragged...
"I liked you better when you were buttoned up," I hear myself say.
His expression shifts—hurt flickering before it hardens into something colder. "Why? Because it was more fun to corrupt the good boy?"
"Maybe."
"Too bad. That guy's gone."
"Yeah. I'm starting to see that."