Raven had learned to read silence.
Jaxon’s silence was cold and calculated, measured like a blade, controlled like breath through clenched teeth.
Zane’s silence, however, was a loaded gun. No aim, no safety. Just a countdown to chaos.
It was why she stiffened the moment she stepped into the VIP lounge and found him sprawled across one of the leather couches, his boots propped up, glass of bourbon in hand, smirking like sin.
“I was wondering when you’d stop avoiding me,” Zane said, raising the glass in salute. “Did big brother finally let you off the leash?”
Raven didn’t answer. She wasn’t in the mood for his games. Not after the last seventy-two hours of Jaxon pulling her deeper into his world, and her own reflection reminding her of the bruises she hadn’t asked to enjoy.
She turned
