50. Holden
FIFTY
HOLDEN
When I step toward the brushed-steel doors at the end of the VIP corridor, one of Odin’s security men is already waiting.
He doesn’t greet me or ask me why I’m here.
He just puts a black keycard in my hand and steps aside, leaving me with the kind of access most of the club’s employees don’t know exists.
Milo is still alone at the motel in a room with a wrapped corpse, three liters of cleaning chemicals, and enough blood evidence to give an entire forensic department a collective orgasm. Dean McMahon—the undertaker Eli brought into the fold—and two cleaners are already on their way.
But Odin told me to meet him upstairs first.
I swipe the card.
The elevator opens without a sound.
Black stone. Low lighting. No buttons beyond the single illuminated mark under the scanner. Milo has spent six months trying to hack this thing and complaining that the security system has developed a personal vendetta against him.
The doors close and carry me above the club.
I’ve been working out of Unholy Desires for years. I know its entrances, service corridors, camera angles, and private rooms. I know which walls are structural, which doors hide storage, and exactly how quickly Knox can empty the main floor if a member becomes a problem.
I’ve never been up here.
The top floor is quiet enough that the bass becomes a pulse under my shoes.
Dark timber divides the open space into smaller rooms. Amber light catches polished concrete, old leather, and a wall of glass overlooking the water.
The club downstairs is designed to be watched.
This place was built for people who don’t need an audience.
Odin is in an armchair beside the fire. His dark hair has a silver thread at the temple and is swept back, not a strand out of place even at this hour.
He’s in a waistcoat over a white dress shirt, the sleeves buttoned at his wrists.
Instead of the prosthetic he usually wears, a black patch covers his missing eye.
It makes his one real eye look sharper by contrast. He has a tumbler of something dark in his hand that he’s holding but not drinking. Some things never change.
Two women sit opposite him, each with a leather briefcase at her feet and a folder open across her lap.
The younger one is in a black suit, posture rigid, pen poised over a legal pad.
The older woman beside her has silver threaded through her dark hair and a look about her that says she’s accustomed to delivering consequences to powerful men.
Thor is on the sofa. He takes up most of it.
The man is enormous—six-five at least, hands like shovels, blond.
I do what I do with anyone that size, check where his weight is, what’s within his reach, how many steps he’d need to close the distance to the elevator.
The answers all come back wrong-side-of-comfortable.
He’s barefoot, one ankle crossed over his knee.
There’s a glass of red wine on the table beside him and a book face down on the armrest—it’s a thick hardcover, no dust jacket.
He looks mildly annoyed by my interruption of his reading.
Loki is at the bar. He’s Thor’s opposite in build—lean and angular, with dark blond curls, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a mouth permanently poised at the edge of a smirk.
A pearl glints at one ear. His lavender paisley shirt is open at the throat, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows over black trousers.
The confidence sells it. You’d never make him for a threat.
He’s mixing a drink and doesn’t look up when I enter.
He doesn’t need to. Loki always knows who’s in the room.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No.” Odin pushes to his full height. “They were just leaving.”
Both women exchange a glance before packing up their things and standing.
“Remember what I said,” the older woman says, her attention on Odin. “This isn’t something you can talk or buy yourself out of.”
“I understand, Evelyn. Thank you. Do you need an escort out?”
“We know the way.”
They brush past me without another glance, briefcases swinging at their sides. The elevator opens behind me, swallows them, and closes again.
“Something we need to worry about?” I ask.
“Nothing that concerns you or the others.” Odin takes his seat and gestures for me to do the same. “What can I do for you, Holden?”
I stay standing. “We have a situation.”
He reads my face in one sweep. Whatever he sees there makes him lean forward.
Thor closes his book and sets it on the armrest. Loki brings his drink over from the bar and drops into the chair opposite him.
Odin looks at me. “Go on.”
“Sage went solo tonight.”
The room stills. Loki’s fingers stop against the arm of his chair. Thor’s book slips forgotten against the sofa cushion.
“Which target?” Odin asks.
“Dale Stine. Long-haul trucker. Knox had him flagged, but we hadn’t prioritized him—the Kennel cluster took precedence.”
“And Sage decided to reprioritize.”
“She did.” I outline it the way I would brief a commanding officer—Sage took Micah’s hatchback and Knox’s file. Left her choker beside Milo so we’d believe she was still at home. Drove to the truck plaza. Watched Stine spike her drink, pretended to swallow it and let him take her to a room.
“How close?” Thor asks.
“Too close. He got on top of her. Milo found her pinned under the body.”
Thor releases a slow, terse breath through his nose. “Go on.”
I continue, explaining how Milo followed her, freed her, secured the room, and started the preliminary cleanup.
I inspected the scene, checked Sage’s injuries, and destroyed every item she wore into the room.
“The motel cameras and vehicle trail are being handled. We have someone getting the hatchback. Dean is en route for the body, and I called in cleaners for the biological cleanup.”
“Milo remains on-site?” Odin asks.
“He’s waiting for the crew to get there.”
“And Miss Adams?”
“Downstairs.”
Loki lifts Odin’s glass from the side table and takes a sip.
“Of course she is.”
Odin lets the silence stretch until it becomes pressure.
“Dale Stine was a rapist on our list and he’s dead,” I say. “The scene is contained. The disposal is covered.”
“The outcome isn’t the problem.”
His voice stays level, meaning he’s furious.
“She took intelligence gathered for an active operation,” he continues. “Abandoned the protection assigned to her while another man is hunting her. Compromised a personal vehicle, created a crime scene your existing team couldn’t process, and forced an unplanned recovery and cleanup.”
“She planned an op on her own and succeeded.”
“She was trapped under a corpse. The only reason this can be deemed a success is because of Milo’s incessant need to track the movements of the people he cares about.”
“Milo did exactly what he was supposed to do. His job was to keep her safe, and that’s what he did.”
Odin’s eye narrows.
I don’t drop my gaze. “Another rapist is off the streets thanks to what she did tonight. I’m not going to pretend I dislike the result.”
“Do not mistake a successful outcome for acceptable conduct.”
“I don’t.”
The difference matters. So does the fact Sage is alive to learn it.
Loki crosses one ankle over the other. “She’s more dangerous outside the mission than she is inside it.”
Odin turns his head.
“You keep excluding the poor girl, then act surprised when she organizes her own entertainment.” Loki examines the contents of Odin’s glass before taking another sip. “Give her a place inside the operation and at least we’ll know where she’s pointing the knife.”
“You’re suggesting I reward insubordination?”
“I’m suggesting containment, darling.”
Thor shifts beside him. “Inside an operation, she has a plan. And backup.”
“Outside it, she has a knife and Milo,” Loki adds. “A terrifying combination even before you give her car keys.”
“She’s excellent with a knife,” I say, willing my dick to stay down because she’s fucking magnificent with a knife. “We could use her.”
Loki raises the glass toward me. “See, Odin? We’re all in favor of the Murder Kitten—as Milo likes to call her in his paperwork.”
Odin considers us in turn. Thor. Loki. Me.
“Provisional operational status,” he says finally. “For the next assignment only. Full briefing. Planning. Field deployment. She moves with the team, follows the plan, and does not select or execute another target without authorization.”
“She won’t like that last part.”
“Her approval is not a condition of the assignment.”
“Neither is mine.”
“No.” His gaze hardens. “It isn’t.”
Loki settles deeper into his chair, delighted by the tension.
“Take her on your next assignment,” Odin says. “If she can follow orders and work inside the team, I’ll formalize the role.”
“And if she breaks the rules?”
Thor’s attention settles on me. “People who break our rules tend to go missing.”
Odin’s expression doesn’t change. “Make sure she understands that.”
Every muscle in my shoulders locks.
“Careful, detective,” Odin says. “That warning applies to all of you.”
I let that sit between us for two seconds longer than either of us enjoys, and I do what I do with every threat spoken in a quiet room by a man with resources, I memorize it.
Word for word, time-stamped, filed with the location and who was present.
If it ever needs to be actioned, I’ll have it verbatim.
Then Odin reaches for the thin folder on the table.
Rosaline Gable is printed across the tab.
“I couldn’t help noticing your report wasn’t particularly extensive.”
“There wasn’t much to report.”
“No?”
“Final-year nursing student. Works at the hospital. No record. No concerning associations. Debt she took on to qualify for a job that barely pays enough to clear it.” I keep my voice flat.
“She took care of Sage. Stood up to me when I tried to move her before the transfer was ready. As far as I can tell, she’s a good person. ”
Odin studies me. “That sounds remarkably like an argument.”
“It’s context.”
“It’s your opinion.”