VANCE’S POV
VANCE’S POV
Music thumped through the walls of the east wing common room, bass heavy enough to rattle the windows, and I let the crowd see exactly what they expected to see.
Vance Castillo, drink in hand, laughing too loud at a joke I hadn't actually listened to, one arm draped around a pack member's shoulders like the night held nothing more urgent than the next round of shots.
It was a good performance. I'd had years of practice.
I slipped out through the kitchen door twenty minutes later, and nobody noticed, because nobody ever notices the wildcard brother slinking off to find more trouble somewhere else.
That reputation had taken years to build, careless and reckless and endlessly, predictably self-destructive, and I protected it the way Roman protected his crown. I
