Beatrix stood rigid, glaring at him through the darkness. The indignity of it burned worse than any wound she'd ever taken in the field.She was the Soldier Queen, the highest-ranked female operative in the entire country. Every rung of that ladder had been climbed through blood, sweat, and years of relentless training. She had never once failed a mission.Until tonight.Tonight she'd been caught like an amateur, pinned by a man the Bureau had flagged as a serial killer."How can you say you don't look like one?" she snapped, her voice rising. "Every single one of these recent murders traces back to you. There's no running from that."The more she spoke, the hotter her anger burned. If she could have killed him right here, right now, she would have done it without a second thought. But the gap between them was too vast. She'd felt it the instant he'd seized her. His strength wasn't something she could overcome, not tonight, not like this.And that certa

Nick laughed. It wasn't a warm sound. It was the kind of laugh that escaped when fury had burned through every other reaction and come out the other side as something cold and sharp.So this was what it had all been about. The grovelling. The performative remorse. The rehearsed speeches about family and reconciliation. Every word had been building toward this single, brazen demand.The Prescotts wanted the Crane Group.Celia stood beside him, lips pressed thin, hands trembling at her sides. She'd actually believed them, he realized. For a brief, foolish moment, she'd let herself hope her family had come to make things right.Instead, they'd come to collect.Cameron took their silence as an opening. He straightened and spoke with the confidence of a man who believed his own nonsense. "I'm thinking of the bigger picture here. The Crane Group is just finding its footing again. You really want to watch it crumble a second time?"He spoke about the company a

Red lanterns swayed in the evening breeze above the gates of the Quinn Villa, casting warm pools of light across the stone courtyard. A procession of luxury vehicles lined the private road, gleaming beneath the glow. Every guest who stepped through the entrance wore tailored finery, the kind of people whose net worth announced itself before they ever opened their mouths.Scarlett Sullivan strode toward the entrance with the confidence of someone who belonged. Behind her, Bradford Walton followed at a half-step, his expression tight with unease."Scarlett, are you sure it's fine that we just showed up without telling Nick Crane first?" He lowered his voice, glancing around as though the man might materialize from the shadows. "The seven-day reckoning isn't up yet. If he finds out we came here..."Scarlett stopped mid-stride and turned, fixing him with a look so withering it could have peeled paint. "Tell me something. Where are we right now?"Bradford blinked befo

The entire hall fell silent.Not a murmur, not a breath. Every soul stood frozen, eyes locked on the smoking crater where a Platinum-rank Martial Warrior had stood seconds ago. The chandeliers swayed faintly, casting jittering shadows across the marble floor.Lord Quinn's composure cracked apart. He stumbled backward, jaw hanging loose, pupils shrunk to pinpoints. His hand groped behind him for something solid and found only empty air.A single punch, and Nick Crane had reduced a Platinum-rank Warrior to nothing. Not a body. Not a broken form. Just red mist and the copper-sweet stink of blood settling over the room like fog.If not for that smell, if not for the wet warmth clinging to the skin of those who'd stood closest, every person present would have believed they'd hallucinated.Scarlett Sullivan, who moments ago had been preening with smugness, went rigid. The triumphant gleam in her eyes guttered out like a candle in a storm. She said nothing, knuckle

Two figures of terrifying authority knelt before Nick Crane as though awaiting orders. The scene left Lord Quinn stupefied, and every guest in the hall shared his disbelief. It defied every calculation he had made when he orchestrated this evening.Nick regarded them without surprise. His gaze settled on the ruby signet ring glinting in his hand, and a ghost of memory surfaced. That ring represented Princess Lillian Ashford-Vane, the Princess Royal of the Kingdom of Albionne, the highest-ranking bloodline in their royal house. Mary Bright had pressed it into his palm the night before he left, a parting gift he never expected to use. Yet here it was, doing its work. No princess of lesser standing could defy the authority it carried, and Princess Lillian, a branch-line royal who barely qualified for the title, had recognized it instantly.The dagger belonged to Mad Blade of Bluestone Penitentiary, the king of mercenaries, who had given it to Nick for exactly this sort of occ