Cassian’s POV
Cassian Moreau liked his information as fresh as his whiskey—delivered fast, sharp, and burning. Tonight, both came to him in the same breath.
He sat in the private lounge of his club, a dim cavern of velvet and shadow. His men moved like ghosts, slipping in and out with murmured reports, each word measured before it reached his ears.
But this one—this one snapped his attention to ice.
“Lucas is alive.”
The words dropped like glass shattering. Cassian leaned forward in his chair, the fire in the hearth painting his sharp profile in orange and red. His glass stilled halfway to his lips.
“Alive?” His voice cut through the air, quiet but lethal.
The informant nodded, sweat beading at his brow. “Battered. Broken. But breathing. Damon’s men are holding him.”
Cassian’s jaw
