Ryder
A guy I vaguely recognize as one of Paulo’s people stumbles inside, panting like he ran a marathon. His wide eyes dart around the room, ignoring the collective glares he’s earned for the interruption, before locking onto Paulo. Without a word, he strides over and leans down to whisper something in his ear.
I watch as Paulo’s face morphs from its usual stoic calm to something dangerously close to panic. His eyes go wide, his lips part like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. That’s enough to make my stomach twist.
Thorne straightens, his patience clearly at its limit. “What the hell is going on?” he demands, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension.
Paulo hesitates, running a hand over his jaw like he’s weighing his words carefully. That’s never a good sign.
