THE SILVER-EYED MAN leaned closer, his shadow stretching over her like a dark wing.
The music was a physical weight now, a thumping, relentless tide of sound that seemed to isolate the two of them in a bubble of cold, calculated terror.
"You didn't answer my question, darling," he murmured, his voice sliding underneath the bass. He reached out, not to touch her skin, but to toy with a loose strand of her hair, his fingers hovering agonizingly close to her temple. "Why do you look so devastated by a simple harvest? You're traveling with two of the most efficient reapers in the business. You should be used to the price of power by now."
Mailah's breath hitched. She felt small—not because she was weak, but because this man carried a stillness that was louder than the club's speakers. Every instinct screamed at her to bolt, but her legs felt like lead.
