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Maurice’s grin went full oily. He stuck out his hand again, rings glinting under the harsh lights.

“Pleasure doing business, Post,” he said. “I’ll text you the details.”

I shook his hand, feeling that same too-warm, too-dry grip. He squeezed, sealed it, then let go and drifted off to talk to someone near the bleachers who smelled like expensive tobacco and bad intentions.

I stood there with the din of the barn rolling over me — shouts, laughter, the clink of bottles, the distant squeak of a door somewhere in the back — and let my gaze sweep the space.

Old auction ring. Rusted gates pushed against the walls. Bleachers full of people who’d paid in cash. A kid with a pregnant wife icing his jaw in the corner while a man like Maurice decided whether he was worth the investment.

It felt big.

It felt bad.

And I still didn’t have a damn thing solid to take to Nash except a handful of impressions and a gut screaming this was wrong.

I grabbed my hoodie from the folding chair, shrugged it carefully over my sore shoulders, and headed for the exit.

Outside, the night air hit my sweat-damp skin, cool and clean. The stars were a faint smear behind a high haze. My truck sat where I’d left it, a familiar shape in a place that felt anything but.

I climbed in, shut the door, and sat for a second with my hands on the steering wheel. My ribs hurt. My jaw throbbed. My knuckles ached dully where the padding hadn’t caught all of it.

But under the pain, there was something else. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Not even adrenaline anymore.

Focus.

For the first time in a long time, my head wasn’t just looping through loss on repeat. I was thinking about Tyler. About Maurice. About circuits and venues and how far this thing reached.

I was thinking about Chloe and our town and how close this rot might be to both.

I started the truck, the engine rumbling to life.

As I pulled out of the lot and back onto the dark road, one thought settled heavy in my chest.

Whatever I’d just agreed to, it had teeth.

And I’d just put my hand in its mouth.

Chapter Fifteen

Ten days after the barbecue, my phone lit up with Zoe’s face and the all-caps text she’d set as her own contact note:

DO NOT IGNORE ME

I was at my table, pretending to thumbnail a layout for Seris and Kael and mostly just smearing graphite around while I replayed Zarek’s face when he’d seen me in the orange dress.

I sighed and hit accept.

“Hey, Zo⁠—”

“What the hell is going on with your husband?” she snapped.

So. No warm-up then.

My spine went straight. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I just got off the phone with Fletcher,” she barreled on, like I hadn’t spoken. “And I’m about ten seconds away from driving to your house, dragging Zarek out by his ear, and knocking his head against something hard until he can hear again.”

Heat shot through my veins. “What did Fletcher say?”