Brax’s pov
The rhythmic ticking of my watch grated on my nerves like steel on stone—9:45 PM. I needed to be at the party with Willow, yet here I was, in a grimy warehouse, staring down a defiant man bound to a chair. Blood stained my knuckles and dripped onto the cold concrete floor, mixing with the dim light that barely illuminated the cavernous space.
"I told you, I don't have the money," the man spat, his voice trembling yet resolute.
I clenched my fists, the acrid smell of sweat and fear hanging heavy in the air. "That's not good enough," I growled, glancing at the digital face of my watch again. I needed to be out of this hellhole and with Willow, not dealing with my father's dirty work.
"Please," he continued, his eyes pleading. "Give me a week. I'll get the money."
I stared him
