The music in Club Eden throbbed like a second pulse, low and relentless, stitched into every wall and mirrored ceiling. Raven moved through it like a shadow, her black silk dress slipping over her skin as though it belonged there. The new bartender barely looked up when she smiled at him, just a flash of dimples, the kind that made men think they were being let in on a secret, but tonight wasn’t about teasing drinks out of strangers. Tonight was about information.
The journalist in her, the part that had never stopped hunting, even when Jaxon’s touch made her want to forget, had sharpened itself again. Zane was growing bolder, and Jaxon was growing colder, and somewhere between them she was starting to lose herself.
The first step was easy: find the weak link.
Club Eden’s assistant mana
