Page 126 of Intense
As we step into the dingy little pub on the outskirts of London, a thrill runs through me, like the opening crackle of static before a storm.
I pull my flat cap lower, shadowing my face, and make my way through the haze of sweat and spilled beer to the far corner of the bar. Reggie and Rowan fall into step behind me, their movements loose, but their eyes scanning. We’re armed. Alert. We trust no one.
Especially not in a place like this.
The bartender clears his throat, barely meeting my eye. “What can I get you?” he asks, tone flat.
I lift my chin just enough. When our gazes lock, he takes a step back.
“Dog and Duck,” I say quietly but deliberately.
His mouth twists into a smirk. Recognition flickers in his eyes.
“He’ll be right out. Drink while you wait?”
“Whatever you recommend.”
He pours three pints of some dark, bitter beer and slides them over. As I reach for my wallet, he lifts a hand.
“On the house.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Behind me, I feel the twins shift, tension tightening between their shoulders just before glass shatters against the wall. Raised voices follow. A scuffle is brewing. But I don’t turn around. It’s not our fight. Not yet.
I feel him before I see him, Theo King. His presence settles next to me like smoke. He takes the stool at my side without a word.
“Mr. King,” I greet, finally turning toward him.
His two brothers, Kane and Ryder, take position behind him, mirroring Reggie and Rowan at my back. A perfect standoff without a single weapon drawn.
“Dr. Quinn.” Theo grins, extending his tattooed hand. I shake it.
The shouting behind us gets louder. A man crashes into a table, another bottle smashes, but neither of us so much as blink.
“Thanks for flying over on such short notice,” he says, all calm confidence.
“Of course. We want this done as fast as you do.”
He nods slowly, glancing past me toward the twins.
“Those your muscle?” he asks, his Cockney twang curling the words.
I grin, just enough.
“No. They’re family.”
“Good.”
Behind him, another man gets slammed into a wall, and I feel the scrape of brass knuckles in my pocket. My fingers twitch for the weight of them.
“Interesting venue choice,” I murmur.
“Perfect distraction for us, yeah?”
I meet his gaze; his dark blue eyes are unreadable. Calculating. He’s studying me the same way I’m assessing him. Quiet assessments. Who’s bluffing. Who’ll strike first.
“You’re itching, aren’t you? To let off some steam,” he says, almost amused.
