Logan Mason never imagined himself here—leaning against the marble bar in a private suite of a club that reeked of secrets and money, sipping on an expensive drink he couldn't taste, while Aurora stood across the room, her body perfectly still, her eyes sharper than any blade she carried.
They were supposed to come here for information.
Instead, they'd walked into a negotiation with a man who spoke like a diplomat but carried the weight of a killer behind every syllable.
His name was Saint.
No last name. Just Saint. Polished, refined, and dressed like he belonged in a parliament building instead of the underworld. Yet the way his presence bent the air in the room made it clear: Saint wasn't a man to say no to.
"You brought your watchdog," Saint remarked lazily, eyes flicking toward Aurora. "Not that I mind. I've always appreciated beauty paired with danger."
Aurora didn't flinch. "Flatter me again, and I'll rearrange your jaw."
