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Scar untucked her legs as he and I stared one another down. Her movements were so graceful that she reminded me of a lynx as her muscles bunched in preparation for an attack. Flutters erupted in my stomach when her body turned to face Magomed. Her intentions were clear—it was my back she had. He let out an amused huff at her silent declaration, his lips peeling back into an ever-so-slight grin.

Bringing her was turning out even better than we’d planned because I wasn’t sure the Dagestani would have partnered with us otherwise.

“Blood decides nothing,” he translated, savoring the phrase in his mouth like something delicious. “Seems we are all bastards here, no?”

Scar’s body stiffened.

“We’re interested if the perks are there,” he responded, lounging back in his seat. His voice was devoid of emotion, but my vantage point let me see how his knee had begun bouncing below his desk. The nervous jitter told me he wanted this deal to work out.

“We’re going to cripple the Four, take everything from them. Starting with their money. We want you to stop giving the mob their cut,” I responded.

“And when they come demanding their money? What do I do then, huh? Will you be the one here to take their bat to the hand for disobedience?” he sneered, the words clearly a recount of prior experience.

But that wasn’t my fucking problem.

“Our plans will already be in motion by that time.” I slammed my palms down on the top of his desk, causing him to twitch at the sudden movement. “Hear this, Magomed. We are offering this partnership once. If you don’t want in, I don’t really give a fuck. It will just be more heads for me to take from their shoulders.”

All three men paled at the expression painted across my face. The chilling cold of not giving a shit about the sanctity of life. No one should depend on my moral compass, because it didn’t function properly.

Beads of sweat collected along his hairline, and his throat bobbed, but he managed to tear his attention from me and direct it toward Scar, who’d been quietly observing the exchange. Nothing in her body language clued me into what was swirling in that beautiful mind of hers.

“Were you given these same terms?”

Are you with them against your will? That was what he was really trying to ask. Fucked up part was that was a correct interpretation of her situation, but it still made my hackles rise. I didn’t want her to be with us because she’d been forced to. I wanted her to be here with me because she wanted to be.

Air stalled in my lungs as I waited for her response.

“I’m the new Mrs. Caleb Callahan,” she said, tilting her head in a move that felt predatory.

The fight club owner barked out a laugh. “Does he still have a dick?”

“Barely. He is missing a ball,” she replied, smirking before her face turned serious again. “No more games. Are you going to join or not? You get control of this territory, and your cut will go from fifty percent to seventy.”

His dismissive scoff and wave had me seeing red. Shouts rang out when the tip of my katana pierced his cotton T-shirt, the white fibers soaking up the blood leaking from his chest.

“Take the seventy, or I’ll take your tongue for disrespecting her,” I bit out as he lifted his hands in surrender.

“We’ll take it. And there was no disrespect. Scar is family, and she knows it. If she’s giving you three her loyalty, then we will too. But don’t make the same fucking mistakes the Four are doing and disrespect us,” he said, his eyes hardening.

Our stare-down lasted only a few tense moments, but nothing in his posture suggested he was lying.

“We won’t. You will be well taken care of. This information doesn’t leave this room. Got it?”

CHAPTER 31

SCAR

GRAY SWEATPANTS AND DICKPRINTS ARE TO WOMEN WHAT TITS ARE TO MEN

Gravel and glass crunched underfoot. We’d gone out the back way from the office, and the muggy night air was a balm to my lungs. Supposedly they force-circulated fresh air through the underground arena, but that concrete coffin made the city smog taste like crisp mountain pine oxygen in comparison.

I opened my mouth to ask where we were going next, but the words never left. The familiar pop, pop of a gun echoed off the bricked alley walls. A guttural yell tore from Kenji, stopping me in my tracks. Time slowed as a mist of blood and fabric particles exploded from his arm. The world grew muffled. The only sound was the rushing of blood in my ears and my sharp inhale. As quickly as it began, time then flew forward.

“Fuck. Get on,” he called out, throwing his leg over the bike as it roared to life. Crimson droplets kissed the gravel, forming pools. The sight kicked me into action. I ripped my backpack off, digging for my Sig as the volume of the world grew tenfold. My hand wrapped around the rough grip. The weight of a gun felt natural and transformed my emotions from uneasy to a feeling of control.

“Get the fuck on, Scar.” He barked out the command like an order, but his words were drenched in worry. I got the impression the concern wasn’t for himself. The same reason he wasn’t chasing after these assholes. He didn’t want to risk me getting injured. My leg slid over his sinewy thighs. The heat of his chest seared into mine as I settled in front of him—the position awkward but necessary.

“What the hell?” he asked.