The look lasted three seconds.
That was all it took. Three seconds of Blaze's forest green eyes on his nephew's face and the full picture assembled — the recording, the names, the basement, the knife, the road — and something moved through Blaze's expression that the room felt before they saw it. Not rage. Something colder than rage. The absolute zero of a man who has processed something unforgivable and has already decided what happens next.
Jaxon took one step back.
Blaze crossed the room.
He did not hurry. He did not need to. People moved out of his path without being asked, parting the way crowds parted for things that had decided where they were going and were not open to discussion about it.
He stopped in front of Jaxon.
Jaxon opened his mouth.
"Don't," Blaze said. One word.
