Chapter 7 · Settling Old Debts

"Don't look at me like that. You're here because I let you be here," Evelyn whispered, her voice cutting through the thumping bass of the club.

She didn't move her head, but her shoulder pressed firmly against mine. The scent of expensive vanilla and something metallic—gun oil, probably—hit me hard. We were standing in the middle of the dance floor at The Gilded Vein, surrounded by a sea of bodies grinding to a beat that felt like a migraine in real-time.

"I'm not your pet, Evelyn," I muttered, my eyes scanning the VIP balcony. "And I'm definitely not here for the music."

"Then stop acting like a stray dog and start acting like a hunter," she snapped. She reached down, her fingers grazing my wrist in a way that felt less like a touch and more like a leash. "He's at ten o'clock. Table four. He thinks he's invisible."

I followed her gaze. There he was. Silas.

He looked exactly the same as the night he’d left me for dead in the gutters of the Lower District—same smug grin, same tailored suit that cost more than my life was currently worth.