Page 11 of Sacrifice

He doesn’t miss a beat, dodging my question with the finesse of a seasoned fighter. “Been with Aisling?”

“Yeah,” I admit, the word hanging between us heavy as lead. “We’re…kinda dating.” There’s no point dancing around it; Vance isn’t one for games unless he’s the one calling the shots. “What brings you here?”

His bright blue eyes flick over my shoulder, scanning the shadows like they might sprout fangs and pounce. But all he gives me is silence and the ghost of an answer trapped behind those fortress walls he calls a brow.

“Come on, Vance. Out with it,” I press, because if he’s haunting my doorstep instead of ruling his empire of shadows, it’s gotta be big. It’s gotta be bad. And I’ve got a sinking feeling I’m about to get dragged under.

Vance leans in, a move that has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer despite his hushed tone. “Don’t know who’s listening,” he mutters, and I see it—the paranoia clawing at the edges of his composure, making him glance over his shoulder like he’s expecting a knife to find its way there.

“Alright,” I say, keeping my voice low, keyed into his anxiety. “I know a place. Follow me.”

We exit the Bellanova, the night air is thick with the stench of desperation that clings to the strip. This late, the neon lights are a mockery of daylight, casting long, sinister shadows that seem to stretch on forever. Vance moves beside me, a silent silhouette, his presence heavy with unspoken fear.

The Red Light District is alive with the kind of people who make you want to scrub your soul clean after just looking at them. Hookers call out, their voices dripping with promise and peril, but Vance doesn’t so much as flick an eyelid in their direction. He’s lost in his own head, and whatever’s going on inside must be a damn sight more pressing than flesh for sale.

“Almost there,” I murmur, leading him through the tangled mess of humanity. It’s a different sort of jungle, one where you can never let down your guard. Not if you want to keep your throat intact.

Finally, we reach the Moonshine Lounge, a place that’s seen more secrets than a confessional. The door swings open with a creak that speaks of hidden conversations and hushed dealings, and for a moment, I feel like I’m stepping into the belly of the beast. But it’s a beast I know how to handle, at least better than the one gnawing away at Vance right now.

“Inside,” I tell him, and he follows without a word, the kingpin of the Pacific City Angels looking every bit the lost soul he’s trying so hard to hide.

Luna Lux—an old friend, and the keeper of this den of discretion—lifts her gaze as we enter. It’s a look that could cut through steel, heavy with skepticism and a touch of wary respect. “Rook,” she greets me, her voice a smooth caress that belies the sharpness in her eyes. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d walk in with the Archangel himself.”

“Need a booth, Luna. The kind that doesn’t exist to anyone but us,” I say, keeping my tone even despite the roiling tension.

She arches an eyebrow, the silent question hanging between us like a guillotine blade—really, you just bring the Archangel here like it’s no big deal? But Luna knows better than to ask aloud. Instead, she nods curtly and leads us toward the back where her best private room waits, shrouded in shadows and silence.

“Drinks?” She turns to us, her businesslike demeanor firmly back in place.

Vance gives a short, frantic nod, his gaze locked on the floor as if he can find answers in the worn wood. “Whiskey,” he grunts, and I echo his order. Underneath the grime and neon lights of the lounge, Vance looks smaller somehow, the weight of his world bending his shoulders in a way no physical burden ever could.

I sidle into the booth, the worn leather of the seat a familiar comfort. Vance drops down opposite me, his eyes finally meeting mine in the dim light. Their bright blue, usually so full of command and certainty, are now dull with dread. He takes the whiskey from Luna with a hand that doesn’t quite tremble, knocking it back like it’s medicine for a disease he can’t name.

“Thanks, Luna,” I say, my voice low, as she sets down my drink and retreats, closing the door with a soft click that feels like the seal on a tomb. Part of me wants to be anywhere but here, wants to escape this heavy air of desperation—wants my damn room and the solace of solitude. But Vance is unraveling at the seams, and whatever shitstorm he’s caught in, it’s serious enough to drag me down with him.

“Talk to me, Vance,” I prompt, after taking a slow sip of the liquid fire, letting it burn a path down my throat. It’s not every night the kingpin of Pacific City shows up at your doorstep looking like a ghost who’s seen too much of hell.

“Can we trust this place?” Vance’s voice is barely above a whisper, hoarse and desperate.

“Absolutely,” I assure him, glancing around the room to catch Luna’s eye through the one-way mirror behind the bar. She nods subtly before disappearing from view. “This joint’s tighter than a drum, no leaks. Now, what’s got you climbing the walls, boss?”

He runs a hand over his face, dragging the skin down as if to physically hold himself together. “It’s Gunnar…and Nero.” The names come out as if they’re hooked right into his guts, pulling at something deep inside. “I think…I think they’re going to have me killed.”

I can’t help but snort at the idea, my poker face cemented in place. “Vance, you’re sounding like a paranoid pup. Gunnar and Nero wouldn’t dare. Inari’s got this city locked down tighter than her own vault. No one makes a move without her say-so.” I lean back, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Besides, try anything on you? The Angels would tear them apart before the body hit the ground.”

He’s gripping his glass now, knuckles white as the whiskey sloshes dangerously close to spilling over the edge. His blue eyes, usually sharp as shards of ice, are dull with fear. “You don’t get it, Rook. It’s not just about being taken out…it’s Aisling.”

“Aisling?” I echo, frowning.

“Stargazer,” he mutters, using her notorious nickname. “She’s under everyone’s skin. Mine, Gunnar’s…Oberon’s wrapped around her finger. And Luka—”

“Hey,” I interrupt him, “Luka was high on eros. We all know that wasn’t Aisling pulling strings.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Vance shakes his head, dark hair sticking out in tufts where his fingers have raked through it. “She’s got this hold…and I can’t break free. I don’t even trust myself anymore. What if I’m next to do her bidding? To fall right into her trap?”

“Then we deal with it,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the turmoil bubbling inside me. This is bad. Vance is losing his grip, and a man who doesn’t trust his own mind is more dangerous than any pack war. “But for now, you need to keep your head clear. We need to figure out what’s really going on.”

His gaze finally meets mine, searching, desperate for something solid to cling to in the storm he’s conjured in his own head. “Rook, I—”

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