Inside a private clubhouse tucked away in one of Duskhaven City's quieter districts, Steve Turner sat reclined on a leather sofa draped with tiger skin, cradling a cup of espresso between his fingers. The aroma curled upward in lazy spirals, but there was nothing relaxed about the atmosphere in the room.
Tristan Flynn and his son Eddison knelt before him on the cold marble floor, their heads bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground. Their faces were swollen beyond recognition, bruised and split in so many places they barely looked human. Neither of them dared lift their gaze.
A door at the far end of the hall swung open. Naomi Moore and Eva Flynn emerged on either side of Mr. Chapman, whose face was flushed a satisfied shade of pink. One of his hands rested on Eva's slender
