Dante
I didn’t like the look on Talon’s face the second he stepped into my office. It wasn’t fear. Talon didn’t do fear. It was that dangerous mix of calculation and restraint, the way a man looks when he’s trying to figure out if telling you the truth will set the whole damn building on fire.
“Spit it out,” I said, flicking the ash off my cigar into the tray.
He tossed a small folded note on my desk. “This was slid under the clubhouse door ten minutes ago.”
I picked it up, felt the cheap paper between my fingers. No scent I could place right away—too many overlapping smells from the clubhouse. But when I unfolded it, the handwriting hit me like a cold knife.
The hunters are already inside the walls.
No signature. No threat. Just a fact dressed up as a whisper.
I leaned back in my c
