Page 154 of The Rules
Julian lifted his glass, slow and lazy. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
They locked eyes.
Ben didn’t rise to the bait—but the hit had landed. A clean cut, expertly placed. And they both knew it.
The tone shifted again, his voice softening into something mock-gentle.
“But since you're here, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
He twirled the drink between his fingers with deliberate ease.
“Shame. I could’ve introduced you to people who actually know how to have fun.”
Ben exhaled through his nose. Slow. Controlled. Measured.
The urge to walk away was real—but pointless.
He’d come here for a reason. And Julian? He was still the best devil in his arsenal.
Ben held his tongue, acutely aware that the instant he revealed his purpose, he'd be handing Julian a weapon—one his brother would wield with cold, calculated precision.
Yet he would surrender it anyway.
They'd run out of options. Crawford had built himself an impenetrable fortress of protection and caution. The system—Ben's carefully constructed system of justice—was failing. Not equipped for this particular monster.
Ben felt the room shift—subtle but unmistakable. Julian’s words sliced through the low hum of the bar like a scalpel, and suddenly the untouched drinks between them felt less like a courtesy and more like a warning.
Not that Ben didn’t need one—he did. But the tension between them was too precise to dull with alcohol. Too dangerous to soften.
Julian lounged back in the booth like he owned the place—and Ben's discomfort. One arm draped along the top of the leather seat, his glass held loosely in the other. That signature smirk tugged at his mouth, the one Ben had learned to read before he could tie his own shoes. He didn’t just look smug.
He looked like he was waiting to enjoy what came next.
“So,” Julian drawled, voice lazy but eyes sharp. “You finally took my advice.”
Ben’s stare hardened. Suspicion flared fast and quiet behind his eyes. His brother didn’t give advice. Not without strings. And never without a scoreboard.
“What advice?” he asked, voice low, flat. Controlled.
Julian tipped his glass in a loose, lazy gesture. The ice shifted with a soft clink, punctuating the moment like a smirk in sound form.
“The Crimson Bloom,” he said, every syllable deliberate. “Told you ages ago you needed to loosen up. Apparently, you listened. Word is, you didn’t just visit—you went back. Multiple times. Had yourself a favorite.”
Ben stilled. Just for a second.
But that second was everything.
His posture straightened, hand tensed against the edge of the table. His pulse kicked up. Still, his expression didn’t change—cut from stone, trained into stillness.
“That’s not—” he began, voice tight, laced with warning.
Ben watched his brother laugh—low and slow. Rage coiled tight in his chest. Julian had always known how to get under his skin, but this? This was different. This was surgical.
“Don’t bother,” Julian said, grinning like a cat with feathers on its tongue. “I know what happened. Blondie had you wrapped around her little finger.”
He leaned in then, eyes gleaming with that signature predator’s gleam that made Ben’s skin itch. Julian didn’t just collect secrets—he sharpened them.
“But what I didn’t expect?” His voice dipped, velvet and poisonous. “That she’d turn out to be your very own associate.”
