Aria POV
The hallway was narrow and floored with old, scarred boards. Roman’s boots made a slow, thunderous sound as he led me deeper into the back of the clubhouse, and I followed like someone on their way to confession. Or an execution, I supposed, but I tried not to let the thought take root.
The last door opened into a room that felt both bigger and smaller than the main lounge—a wide window overlooked the woods, but the inside was crowded by a heavy oak table that looked hand-cut and ancient. Its surface was a battlefield of gouges, cigarette burns, and those round, dark stains left by decades of wet bottles and mugs. Around it were mismatched chairs, none of them the same, all of them bearing the evidence of long lives.
Riot came in the door just behind us. He moved to stand again
