Jaxon stood at the glass wall of his penthouse, staring at the sprawl of the city below as if he could burn through concrete and steel with sheer will. The lights glittered like broken glass, sharp and cold. He’d been waiting three hours. Three hours since the call.
Zane’s voice still hung in his skull like smoke. "Bring her to me, brother. Or the child dies."
The words weren’t shouted; they were delivered in Zane’s usual, taunting drawl, casual as a knife slipped between ribs. The kind of calm only a man with no brakes could manage.
Behind him, Raven paced, her boots clicking a rhythm of fear against polished marble. She’d gone pale as the moonlight spilling through the glass. Her eyes, the ones that usually cut straight through his armor, looked hollow.
“He has Talia’s son,” she said
