Page 63 of Sacrifice

He’s ready for a brawl, if necessary.

The others from our pack are scattered strategically, a silent phalanx poised for trouble. They’re good at this game, their eyes scanning the crowd, their postures relaxed yet ready. It’s a dance of pretense we all know too well.

“Let’s make history,” I mutter under my breath, a half-cocked smile tracing my lips as I make a beeline for the head table.

But before I can take another step, an immovable object plants itself firmly in my path.

Vance.

The Archangel bristles like a storm cloud about to burst. Those bright blue eyes of his are two chips of ice set against the warmth of his tan skin, hardened by something feral—anger, fear, or maybe both. He’s a fortress of muscle and raw emotion, his fists clenched so tight I can see the whites of his knuckles.

“Vance,” I acknowledge with a nod, keeping my tone even, though my heart’s doing a quickstep against my ribs. “Nice night for a wedding reception, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer, just stands there glaring, a silent accusation. I can feel the weight of his stare, and it’s clear—he’s itching for a fight.

And I just handed him an invitation on a silver platter.

Can’t help myself—it’s who I am.

“You’re going to get them all killed,” he says through clenched teeth. “This is no time for celebration.”

“Come on, Vance. Lighten up,” I say, flashing him that practiced smile that’s gotten me out of more scrapes than I can count. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Playing with fire,” he grinds out, the words practically sawing their way through gritted teeth. His arms are so tense, they look like they might snap.

“Maybe,” I concede with a careless shrug—one that says I’ve made peace with getting burned a long time ago. “But it’s for the greater good. Trust me, this will be good for the city.”

Vance snorts, unconvinced. “You really believe that, Nero?”

“Belief is a luxury,” I quip back. “I deal in realities. And the reality is, we’re about to be family.” The word rolls off my tongue with a hint of mockery, laced with a truth that could either bind us or break us all.

His reaction is immediate. Vance’s hand shoots out, his grip iron on my arm—a physical manifestation of his frustration and, perhaps, fear. “Don’t be flip about this. You know what’s at stake.”

“Of course, I do.” I look down at his hand on my sleeve, then back up at him. “Do you?”

“Dammit, Nero, you’re putting the whole pack in danger by flaunting yourself like this,” Vance hisses, his fingers digging into my flesh as if he could force me to see reason through sheer physicality. “You’ve got a bigger target on your back than anyone else. Caius has wanted you dead for years.”

“Vance, you don’t give a damn about the pack,” I retort, my voice dropping an octave as I lean in closer, our noses nearly touching. “Or at least that’s what it looks like from where I’m standing. It’s about time you admitted that to yourself—and everyone else.”

His bright blue eyes flash, a storm brewing within them. But then they soften, just a fraction, and for a moment I see something akin to pain. “You’re wrong,” he says, the hardness in his voice giving way to something more vulnerable. “I do care. That’s why I wanted you to stay away—especially from Gunnar and Aisling.”

I can’t help it—I smirk. It’s not every day Vance Solace, kingpin of the Pacific City Angels, shows a crack in his armor. “Oh? Is this about caring, or is it something else?” I jab lightly, watching him closely. “Are you just jealous that I’ve already tasted Aisling when you’ve been dreaming about it for months?”

For a beat, Vance is frozen, his eyes widening before they harden into flinty chips of ice. He releases my arm as if scalded, and I know I’ve hit a nerve—a raw, exposed one. There’s so much between us unsaid, a history we both dance around, but sometimes it’s fun to watch him squirm.

“Watch your mouth, Rossi,” he grunts, taking a step back as if distancing himself from the truth of my words—or maybe from the temptation they stir within him.

“Or what?” I challenge, tilting my head slightly. “You’ll take a bite out of me too?”

Just as the air crackles with Vance’s barely restrained fury, Rook slides in beside us, oblivious to the tension. His arrival is like an unexpected gust of wind clearing away storm clouds.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Rook greets us with a grin that could charm the scales off a snake. He claps a hand on Vance’s shoulder, who stiffens but manages a nod.

“Rook,” I acknowledge with a nod and seize the moment of distraction. With a casual wave, I slide past Vance, leaving him to simmer in his own stew of anger and regret. My feet carry me towards the center of the grand ballroom, where the stars of the evening are undoubtedly shining.

Aisling stands at the center of the crowd, like some ethereal creature spun from moonbeams and silver threads. Her gown clings and flows in all the right places, her grey eyes reflecting the chandeliers’ light with a sparkle that rivals the diamonds at her throat.

She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t just enter a room—she commands it, and every alpha within sniffing distance knows it.

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