The first time Raven saw Jaxon Morreau break a man, he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw punches or pull a gun or even move quickly. There was no flash of violence, no theatrical rage. Just stillness. Precision. Ice in the shape of a man. And it chilled her more than any screaming brute ever could.
It began with a phone call.
She was in his office, seated on the leather chaise with her notebook in hand, pretending to take inventory of club shipments, an excuse Jaxon had given her to justify her presence, but the real reason was simpler. He wanted her close.
The moment the call came in, something changed in him. His posture, his breath, the way he folded his fingers together like he was preparing for surgery.
“She took the money?” he asked, voice quiet.
There was a pause as whoev
