Page 22 of Savage Loyalty

“Wraith,” he called, his voice loud and clear. “Got a delivery for you.”

The sound of his voice made my stomach twist again. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself for whatever came next, but the knot of tension in my chest refused to loosen.

The door swung open, and Torch gave me one last shove, pushing me into the room without ceremony.

“Try to behave,” he muttered as he stepped back, leaving me to face Ryder Kane alone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DELILAH

The door creaked open, and Torch stepped inside, his grip firm on Delilah Cruz’s arm. She didn’t fight, not anymore. The fire in her eyes was still there, though—smoldering, waiting for an opening, a chance to lash out.

Good.

“Delivery,” Torch said with a smirk, shoving her forward. The force wasn’t rough enough to knock her over, but it was enough to make her stumble.

She caught herself before she fell, her boots scraping against the worn floorboards. Her glare was instantaneous, sharp, and fiery, directed first at Torch and then at me. The way her chest heaved, the tension in her shoulders—it all screamed defiance. But beneath it, I saw something else.

Fear.

She masked it well, but I could spot it a mile away. Fear wasn’t always in the trembling hands or the wavering voice; sometimes it was in the stillness, the calculated way someone stood their ground as if movement might shatter them.

Torch chuckled as he retreated, the door shutting behind him with a solid thud that seemed to echo louder than it should have.

I leaned against the desk, arms crossed, and let the silence settle over the room. She stayed rooted where she was, her head held high, her jaw tight. She’d been shoved into a lion’s den, and I could see the battle raging in her mind: fight or survive.

“Take a seat,” I said, nodding toward the chair in front of the desk.

“I’ll stand,” she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

I smirked. “Suit yourself.”

The room was bare except for the desk, a couple of chairs, and the faint glow from the overhead fixture casting harsh light on the peeling paint and worn floorboards. The light wasn’t forgiving—it illuminated every imperfection, every flaw, just as it was meant to. This room wasn’t about comfort; it was about control.

It was a room where truths were extracted, and decisions cemented. Deals were made here. Fates were decided.

The air felt heavier inside these walls, the kind of weight that settled into your chest and made it harder to breathe. Delilah Cruz stood rigid in the middle of it, her arms crossed, her chin raised like she could defy the room itself.

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Let her stew.

The silence dragged, stretching until it was taut as a wire. Her gaze darted to the corners of the room, quick and sharp, as if she thought she might find an escape hatch hidden in the worn walls. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her body betraying the tension she worked so hard to conceal. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, not out of comfort but to keep herself grounded.

There was nothing in this room that could help her.

The walls might as well have been closing in, and I saw it—the subtle flicker of unease behind her fiery gaze, the slight clench of her jaw when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

“Why am I here?” she demanded, her voice slicing through the silence like a blade.

Sharp. Controlled. But underneath it, I caught the smallest tremor.

I pushed off the desk, my boots heavy against the worn floorboards as I took slow, deliberate steps toward her. Each step was measured, intentional, meant to remind her that I was in control here, not her.

“Why do you think?” I asked my voice low but steady, the weight of it filling the space between us.

Her jaw tightened, the fire in her eyes flaring brighter as she squared her shoulders. But she didn’t move, didn’t flinch, even as I closed the distance between us.

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