Knight and Bluejay: Members Exclusive Edition

“Don’t. Stop. More. Harder.”

He’s trying too hard, a frantic dog looking for a scrap of approval. It’s pathetic. It makes me want to break him just to see if there’s anything real underneath the “VP-chaser” mask.

I don’t look at his face. I don’t want to know the color of his eyes or the shape of his regret. I just want the weight of him—the solid, mindless pressure of a body that isn’t the one I actually crave. He’s breathing like a dying animal, his movements clumsy and desperate, and I hate him for not being enough. I hate him for being alive when the memory I’m chasing is so much more vibrant than he’ll ever be.

As the realization that he’s not up to the task sinks in with a jab of disappointment, I reach down to do the work myself. One hand finds my clit, circling with a practiced precision, while the other pinches a nipple hard. The pain is a relentless pull in a room that reeks of stale beer and that cloying, chemical scent of cheap laundry detergent—the smell of a life that is so small it suffocates me. It keeps me here, tethered to the grime so I don’t drift toward the memories I’m actually chasing.

“Almost... I’m almost there. Don’t stop,” I rasp.

Tuning him out then, I focus on the friction and the face burned into my mind. I chase the memory of those eyes—the way they claimed me every single time. Hands that were rough yet worshipful. I can almost hear him whispering those dirty, sweet lies again, reminding me I was his and he was mine. He was the only one who could make me come until I begged for mercy.

A moan escapes my lips as I finally hit the peak. It’s not the toe-curling, explosive orgasm of my memories. Marginally better than my vibrator, but miles away from the memory I’m actually chasing.

When he finishes seconds after me, he collapses like a puppet with cut strings. I don’t give him the courtesy of a cooling-down period. I slide out from under him, the air in the room laced with grease and desperation, and the fluorescent flicker from outside making it look like a crime scene.

“Wow,” he pants, looking at me with that pathetic, star-struck hunger.“I knew the Iron Roses were dirty, but I didn’t know the VP was this much of a beast.” He runs his hand through his sweaty hair.

I don’t use the bathroom. I want the grime to stay for a moment, a physical reminder of how low I’m willing to go to drown out the silence my ghost left behind. The cracked mirror reflects a ghost. My eyes are rimmed with shadows the color of old bruises. I look like a woman who’s haunting her own life.

“Thanks, doll,” I say, standing and reaching for my boots. “See you around.”

I won’t, but the lie is a reflex.

“Shit,” he coughs, reaching out a hand I easily avoid. “Leaving already?”

“Club business to take care of. The Thorn never sleeps.”

Outside, the cool autumn air smells of garbage and stale smoke. The guy lives in a dingy walk-up right next to an overflowing green dumpster. Three men sit on the stoop next door, adding to the piles of cigarette butts at their feet. I ignore them as I climb onto my Triumph and secure my satin pink helmet. I’m not a “walk of shame” type of girl. Men preen when they get laid; why shouldn’t I walk with my back straight? If anything, they’re the ones who should be ashamed for bragging about such a mediocre accomplishment.

The men on the stoop stay silent, watching as I rev the engine and pull out into the road, leaving them and their disappointing neighbor in the dust.

Judging by the filth I speed past, I’m surprised my bike is still in one piece. I wasn’t inside long—maybe a half hour—but that’s plenty of time for a practiced thief. But then, I’m sure the tank art served as a decent deterrent: a metallic rose with a stem of twisted barbed wire, set against a backdrop of crossed daggers.

The mark of an Iron Rose.

What the fuck am I doing? Why am I in the armpit of the city having shitty sex with a guy I’m already forgetting? I could have any man I want.

The problem is, I already have. I came here to branch out, thinking maybe the men in the grittier part of town would be more primal than the posh, uptight assholes I’ve been cycling through lately.

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since I felt whole. I’ve been with countless men, and none have given me the haunting, absolute satisfaction I crave. The only one who even comes close is Connor. He’s a brother in the club, and after one drunken night, I finally let him in. He satisfies me better than any of the other nameless, faceless men I’ve used, and I actually like him. In another life he might even be enough. So, we’ve used each other for a year now, and we’ve learned each other’s rhythms. He eases the ache, even if he doesn’t cure it.

Why didn’t I just go to him tonight? Why am I searching for something that doesn’t exist?

Commitment. That’s why. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression by fucking him too often. I’m not interested in a leash, from him or anyone else. I just want an orgasm I don’t have to work for.

The ride back to IRMC—Independent Road Maintenance Collective—downtown helps clear my head. Before going home I need to handle some business.

The burner phone vibrates against the scarred mahogany of the office desk, a stark, buzzing rattle that cuts through the silence.

I let it sit there, keeping my focus locked on the three dispatch monitors illuminating the dark room. Monitor one shows the GPS blip of Rig 43 crawling down the I-95 corridor. Monitor two runs the real-time Department of Transportation scanner frequencies.

Monitor three is the problem.

According to the weigh station logs I cloned into our network last year, the southbound scales in Virginia are closed for weekend maintenance. But the DOT frequency crackles with chatter about a “Level 1 rapid deployment” and “K-9 staging.” They’ve set up a trap, and Rig 43 is exactly two miles away.

The phone vibrates again. I pick it up.

“Jay,” Miller’s voice is tight. “You seeing the boards up ahead? Signs are flashing for a mandatory detour into the scales. I’m hauling two million in product in the chassis voids. What’s the play?”

I check the map. “You’re past the last exit, Miller.”

“I can blow the scales. Put the hammer down.”

“You’re in a sixty-ton brick. They’ll have choppers in the air before you clear the county line, and we lose everything.” I tap a pen against the desk, my brain running the math. The cover load in the trailer is commercial-grade agricultural ammonia. Highly regulated. Highly volatile. “What’s your speed?”

“Sixty-five.”

“Drop to fifty. Then I want you to blow your front right steer tire.”

Silence hangs on the line. “Jay, if I blow the steer tire at fifty, I’m putting the rig in the ditch.”

“Exactly. You’re going to put it in the ditch, and you’re going to make sure the trailer skin tears on the guardrail.” I lean forward, my tone sinking into a flat, dead calm. “The ammonia leak will trigger a Level 3 Hazmat response. State Police protocol mandates a half-mile quarantine zone for toxic inhalation hazards. No cops, and definitely no K-9s, are getting within five hundred yards of that wreck without Level A chemical suits.”

“They’ll impound it after the cleanup,” Miller says, his breathing shallow.

“Hazmat containment takes twenty-four hours minimum. It gives our cleanup crew time to hit the impound yard tonight under the quarantine cover and strip the chassis voids. Do it, Miller. Call it in as a blowout.”

“Understood.”

The line goes dead. Four minutes later, the GPS blip on monitor one veers sharply off the highway and flashes red. A collision alert pops up on the screen. I exhale a slow breath, calculate the seventy-grand loss of the cab against the two-million-dollar save of the product, and systematically wipe the last hour of routing data from the club’s server.

The oak door scrapes against the floorboards. Guin. She leans against the frame in a severe pantsuit, her dark eyes tracking the flashing red collision alert before dropping to my face.

“Seventy thousand dollars in twisted metal, Janet,” Guin states, stepping into the room. She doesn’t look at the flashing screen, only at Jay. “You dropped a rig on a state route and nearly put a driver in a body bag. Tell me the pipeline is secure, or tell me why I’m looking at my daughter making a mistake that could cost us this club.”

She leans against the doorframe, dressed in a severe pants suit. Her eyes are dark, tracking the red collision alert flashing on my screen, before dropping to my face.

I don’t flinch. I just drop the burner phone into the desk drawer and click it shut. “I didn’t dump it. I secured the payload.”

“You nearly killed a driver.”

“I saved the pipeline,” I correct, standing up to meet her stare. “And I saved your ass from having to explain a two-million-dollar seizure. You’re welcome.”

Outside this office, they call Guin the President. They kiss her rings and respect the patch. But I’m the one who keeps the blood off the driveway. I’m the one managing the dispatch, bribing the right officials, and burning the burner phones. Guin likes to say she brought us into the dark to keep us alive. But she didn’t just bring me into the dark; she made me the monster that guards the door, ensuring she could sit comfortably on a throne built from my ruined conscience.

Half an hour later, I’m finally on my way home. I want a shower, a drink, and some one-on-one time with a five-speed vibrator. Maybe I’ll be efficient and take care of all three at once.

When I reach my building, the thick steel security gate of the private parking garage grinds shut behind me, sealing off the city street. I coast my Speed Twin down the concrete ramp, the low, guttural rumble of the engine echoing off the walls of the underground bunker.

At two in the morning, the garage is dead quiet, save for the overhead lights. They strobe with a jagged, electric buzz, carving long, inky shadows between the rows of expensive, sleeping cars. The air is stagnant, tasting of damp concrete and the cooling engine of my bike.

For a moment, I sit in the sudden, ringing silence, listening to the metallic tick-tick-tick of the bike cooling in the damp air. My hair is a mess under the helmet, my skin still feels coated in the cheap, spicy scent of tonight’s hookup, the now-empty condom wrapper crinkles in my pocket as I lean back, and all I wanted was a shower hot enough to scald.

I unhook my helmet and sling it over the handlebars.

That’s when the shadows move.

“Late night, Vice President?”

The voice drifts off the concrete—casual, precise, and too close. My hand instinctively drops toward the Tomcat at my side. I force my shoulders to relax the moment recognition sets in.

I stay where I am, leaning my hip against the leather seat of the bike with my arms crossed. A figure peels away from the concrete pillar a few feet from my front tire.

Detective Wood steps into the glaring overhead light. He wears a dark, tailored suit. He carries no weapon or vest, only a steady, unwavering focus.

“You put a lot of work into this breach. It is a shame you chose to waste it by announcing your position” I say.

Wood looks up at the steel gate at the top of the ramp, then back to me with a look of mild calculation.

“Electronic systems have vulnerabilities,” he replies. “A signal clone is a simple procedure for anyone with the right equipment. It makes one wonder about the security of a bunker with no physical locks.”

He looks at the motorcycle. I refuse to show the sudden spike of heat in my blood.

“I hope your department is aware of how you’re spending these man-hours, Detective. They appear to be yielding very little return on your investment,” I drawl.

Wood closes the distance between us, stopping just outside my personal space. Up close, his eyes are flat and dead.

“I’ve spent the afternoon reviewing municipal DOT contracts. Your brine trucks are on the road quite a bit, running state routes and county lines. It’s a significant amount of weight moving through the city.”

He tilts his head, studying my face.

“Road maintenance is a delicate operation,” Wood continues softly. “You can salt the roads all winter, but the cold eventually wins. The ice hardens over. While you fight a losing battle, that salt corrodes the trucks from the undercarriage up. The axles snap, the engines seize, and the whole fleet eventually fails.”

“Our fleet remains well maintained,” I reply, inspecting my nails. “We possess significant experience burying things under asphalt. You would be amazed at what a steamroller can flatten.”

Wood’s expression remains neutral. He reaches into his breast pocket and places a plain white business card flat on the seat of my bike.

“Managing a county-wide road crew is a substantial operation for one person,” he says, his voice devoid of mockery. “If the logistics start to fail, call me. I’m the one who will be handling the filing once the systems collapse.”

I look at the card on the seat, then lift my gaze back to him. I don’t give him the smile. I don’t give him the quip. I simply hold his stare until the silence in the garage turns suffocating.

“I’ll keep the card,” I say, my voice steady. “But don’t expect me to be the one who calls.”

Wood doesn’t blink. He stares at me for a long second, his expression unreadable, before he turns toward the stairwell.

Only when I am alone does my neutral mask drop.

Snatching the business card from the seat, I rip it in half and let the pieces fall onto the oily concrete. I grab my bag and walk toward the private elevator.

My hands are shaking with the urgent, overwhelming need to watch Detective Wood bleed. The shower and the vibrator can wait, but the drink cannot.

Once inside, I arm my security system and pour a double. My phone vibrates in my hand.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Did you get a visit tonight?” My mother’s voice is tight and all business.

“I did. Did you?”

“His partner just left the Greenhouse. I figured he was headed for you.”

“They synchronized it. He was waiting in my garage when I arrived.”

“How did he bypass the gate?”

“I have no idea, but my next call is to Leon. I need to know.”

“You call him. I am calling Wellman’s. Wood has gone too far. He can hide behind the badge to harass us in the streets, but not to ambush us at home.”

“If you think the lawyers can do anything, call them. When I’m off with Leon, I am taking a shower and calling it a night. Unless you need me for something else?”

“No, baby. You relax. We will talk business in the morning. Night.”

“Night.”

I hang up and dial Leon. He’s the best tech-thief in the state, and he’s ours. If anyone can find out how that bastard bypassed my security, it’s him. Once I give him the order, I know it’s handled.

Taking the rum with me, I leave the bathroom lights off and turn the water on full hot to warm up. The neon hum from the street outside filters through the frosted glass, casting a bruised purple glow over the tile. I strip and step into the stall. I let the room fill with a thick, opaque fog of steam that chokes the bathroom in white. The mirror is a ghost, the glass clouded until my own reflection is nothing but a smear of pale shapes and dark, bruised shadows. I don’t scrub. I just stand there, letting the condensation run down the glass like tears, tracing the outline of a face I barely recognize—a woman who is haunting her own life, slowly disappearing into the vapor.

This has become a ritual for me. I’m trying to wash off the smell of the dingy walk-up, the scent of garbage and stale smoke, and the mediocre touch of a man who thought he was a rocket but was really barely a spark.

But tonight, as the steam rises, the heat does treacherous things. It softens the walls holding my memories at bay. I lean my forehead against the cold tile, the water drumming a punishing rhythm against my back, but not washing away the shadows I let slip through earlier.

Closing my eyes is another mistake. In the dark, I see those soul-searing blues again. I feel the phantom weight of much more talented hands pressing into my skin. The memory of his earthy scent wafts up from the recesses of my mind.

Liam.

The name is a bruise I keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.

After seven years, it’s still a gash that won’t close over.

When I’ve scrubbed every inch of skin raw, I stand there until the water turns cold. I’m clean, but I’m not settled. That will take a lot more rum and sleep. So I dry off, crawl into bed, and take care of myself since no one else can.

After a fitful night, I wake up starving and slightly hungover, with the kind of headache that pulses behind my eyes in sync with my heartbeat. There’s a text from Leon waiting—mostly technical jargon explaining how my garage was breached. It’s clear Wood had help, and Leon doubts anyone on the SCPD payroll has the skills to crack his encryption. He suspects Wood is either paying or blackmailing a freelance hacker.

Great.

A second text, sent to both Mom and me, confirms he’s swept all our systems. No other breaches. He’s already patched the holes and added a few new layers of digital barbed wire. Even with all that in place, he promises active monitoring until the threat is eliminated. He’s the best for a reason—mostly because his ego wouldn’t survive a tarnished reputation.

Though I would rather stay in bed, I pad to the bathroom for water and aspirin, then move through my kitchen on autopilot. I hit the button on the coffee grinder, the mechanical scream rattling my skull. Quickly, I shuffle away to the fridge, to stare into the empty shelves as if a meal might materialize if I look hard enough. When it doesn’t, I try the freezer and pantry, but get the same result.

By the time I’m back at the counter, the grinder is silent. So, I carefully scoop the grounds into a reusable K-Cup, pop it into the machine, and hit the button for the largest brew. I stand there, staring at the dripping liquid, waiting until it stops so I can reset the handle and trick the machine into filling the cup to the brim.

I hate most standard breakfast foods, and the ones I actually crave—pancakes, waffles, muffins—will leave me violently ill for days. I could bake safe versions myself, but keeping the ingredients stocked for one person is never worth the effort.

It’s one of the things I miss about him. He used to scour the city for the hidden bakeries that actually understood cross-contamination, just to see me smile.

But he made his choices, so coffee alone on the balcony it is.

As I sip my brew, my mind wanders over other choices he’s likely made since he left. Like the one to have all our matching tattoos removed as soon as he hit Cambridge, especially the J on his ring finger. I’m sure that was the first to meet the laser.

I’m spiraling and halfway through my coffee when my phone dings with an incoming text. Connor.

Connor: I’m coming over. I need a fuck. Bought the Celiac-safe muffins from 6th.

Jay: If they’re tainted, I’m shooting you.

Connor: I threatened the baker myself. They’re clean.

Jay: Bring them up.

Connor: If you want to actually eat them while they’re warm, be fully dressed when I open that door. Otherwise, they’re going cold.

I laugh. This is not his first time bringing me safe pastries as part of our fuck-buddy arrangement. Connor is one of the few people I’ve ever let see me in the throes of a reaction, and he is meticulous about making sure he isn’t the cause of another one.

My stomach growls, making the choice for me: I’ll be fully dressed when breakfast arrives. I go back inside and refill my coffee, but don’t even bother sitting back down. I can already hear the roar of Connor’s bike echoing down the block.

Minutes later, I pull open the door, and there he is: five-ten, two hundred pounds of lean Irish muscle. His chestnut-brown hair is a mess from his helmet, and his full beard—meticulously kept but rugged—frames a jawline that could cut glass. He looks me up and down, his emerald-green eyes flashing with a mix of hunger and mockery.

“Damn,” he says, taking in my pajama bottoms and oversized I.R.M.C. shirt.

I shrug and hold out my hand. He pulls the box from his backpack and slides it over. They’re steaming.

“Why do you never eat?” he complains, following me inside.

“I do eat. Just not breakfast.”

“Most important bloody meal of the day,” he mutters, though his gaze is already raking over the curve of my hips.

“What’s your problem? You can’t be so hard up that you’d let food go cold.”

“Actually, I am. Come on, Sionnach. Will the food not wait?”

“No. They’re best when they’re warm, and I’m sure you really did terrorize some poor girl for them.”

“Should’ve shagged her instead,” he grumbles. “She was cute enough.”

“You don’t do ‘cute,’ Connor. And you don’t do whining. Now eat. Make your own coffee.”

We move to the balcony, where he practically inhales his food, and watches impatiently as I eat mine. The second I take the last bite, he’s on me.

My cup is still in my hand when he launches himself forward, kissing me furiously, his fingers fisting in my hair. Carefully, I lower the cup on the small table with a resounding clink and kiss him back just as hard. He lifts me out of the seat then, pinning my ass against the balcony rail before nipping his way down my neck.

Our clothes are gone seconds later. His head is buried between my legs, hands gripping my thighs like a vise. He’s merciless, licking and sucking until I come undone. Then he works his way back up, torturing my nipples with a lethal combination of lips, hands, and teeth.

I’m panting and dripping when I push his chest to force a bit of space. I slip off the rail and shove him back into the chair, gripping his shaft and impaling myself on him with a low moan. Reveling in the fullness, I try to still for a second, but Connor isn’t having it. He grips my shoulders and thrusts upward, rocking his hips to grind against my clit.

I meet him thrust for thrust, our pace punishing. He takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks hard; the vibration of his groan hits my core and wrecks me. I’m still coming when he stands, holding me to him with his hands under my ass, and carrying me into the living room.

Inside, he slaps my hip and dumps me onto the sofa, flipping me until I’m spread wide over the arm. Then, he sinks back into me slowly, deliciously deep, filling me even more. His heavy breathing brushes over my ear and raises a shiver down my spine. A rough hand trails over my belly and between my legs, running a single finger over the sensitive, aching bundle of nerves. Once. Twice.

This is where he thrives. Control, and sweet torment.

He keeps it up for a while longer, but when I groan in frustration, he snaps. His hands lock onto my hips, and he’s piston-ing into me, his pelvis making bruising contact with every strike. When I peak again, he yanks my hair back, forcing my spine to arch.

I’m white-knuckling the cold leather arm of the sofa, chasing the next high. I know he’ll hold me here, taking his time. He’s always complained that other women can’t handle him long enough. I’ve always complained that men think one orgasm is a finished job. This is why we work. I don’t mind the reins he takes, and he likes seeing how many times he can break me.

With Connor, I gladly trade soul-wrenching quality for sheer, punishing quantity.

Instead of stopping, he pulls my hair a little hard and leans forward, his chest flush against my back.

“Féach orm, a Shionnach,” he orders, his breath hot against my ear, the Gaelic a low, guttural rasp. My hooded gaze locks with his blazing one, and he watches my face as he changes his rhythm, pulling out to the tip and slamming back into me over and over.

He keeps watching as his other arm slides up around my neck, and he applies just enough pressure to let me know he’s there without making it hard to breathe. It’s always amazed me how controlled he is when he fucks.

He laughs as he tightens his hold on my neck, and I moan through the orgasm that follows. He lets me go only to yank my wrists behind my back and use them to leverage deeper and harder into me. He keeps up a brutal pace, pulling me into him and bouncing my breasts off the rough, warmed leather with each stroke. After just a few minutes of this, he squeezes my wrists tight and lets go to slap my ass before leaving me empty.

Before I can protest, he scoops me up by the waist and carries me to the bedroom, tossing me onto the mattress like a sack of grain. I roll over and watch him prowl toward my nightstand. He knows what’s in the drawer—he bought half of it. Expertly, he pulls out the bondage tape and my vibrator, a smirk playing on his lips. Eagerly, I hold out my wrists, and he kisses me as he binds them and moves them above my head. I don’t miss the way his fingers graze the silver and ruby ring on the third finger of my left hand as he does.

His hands rove over my body in a slow, calculated caress. His fingers trace the ink on my side, trailing up to the sprawling tattoo designed to hide the puckered scars of a bullet that nearly destroyed my collarbone, before dragging across the ink on my opposite shoulder blade.

Then, the vibrator buzzes to life.

He deliberately teases me with it. Sliding the tip over my breasts and belly. Just when it’s a breath away from where I need it most, he clicks it off, pushing lazily back inside me instead.

Unfortunately, he isn’t in a hurry now. He’s got the erratic energy out of his system. Now he wants to play, and he is thoroughly enjoying his game.

He kisses my ear, my face, and my neck. His hands don’t linger on one inch of my body for too long. His movements are slow and agonizingly angled.

Finally, his hand drifts between us, and he works me to another climax that has my eyes clenching closed. I’m flooded with sensations, and my mind slips. The gentle touch, the slow, tender pace... it sends me to a different bed. A different man.

That man didn’t edge me. He didn’t get off on control or pleasurable torment. We weren’t a hookup. We were a collision. He would pin me to his mattress, his sky-blue eyes burning into mine, and methodically strip away every defense I had until I was entirely his.

A suffocating pressure on my neck and the vibrator’s highest setting jerk me back to the room. Within seconds, I’m screaming my throat raw as I explode in a violent climax, and Connor follows.

He knows what just happened. It’s not the first time I’ve drifted, while he was inside me.

The first few times, I tried to apologize. But Connor understands. He knows that in this city, we’re all just trying to outrun our ghosts.

Now, we don’t bother with the apologies. We act like it’s normal.

He unpins my wrists, the bondage tape making a dry ripping sound in the sudden quiet of the room. He doesn’t look at my eyes, and I don’t look at his. Instead, he falls back against the pillows, lacing his fingers behind his head as his breathing begins to level out.

“What was that, little Fox? Four? Five?” he asks, his voice regaining its usual cheeky edge.

“Five,” I say, finally letting out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for years. I manage a small, tired laugh. “But who’s counting?”

“Damn it!” He forces a grin at the ceiling, though the tight corners of his mouth betray a flicker of something unsaid. “I was trying to beat my personal best. I’m losing my edge.”

“Maybe next time, Connor.”

I sit up, rubbing the faint red marks the tape made on my wrists.

“I heard about the shit with Wood yesterday.” He changes the subject smoothly.

When he finally looks at me, the playful glint in his eyes fades into something more professional—more dangerous.

“More of the same?” he says, his voice dipping into a resonant, low hum.

“More of the same,” I confirm, pulling a clean shirt over my head. The soft cotton feels like armor. “He’s getting bolder, though. Bypassing my garage encryption isn’t just harassment. We’d better head in and see if anything new has popped up.”

Connor nods, swinging his legs off the bed. He doesn’t offer a sentimental goodbye or a lingering touch. We’ve had our release; now we have a war to manage.

He heads out to the balcony, his naked silhouette a dark contrast against the morning light, and returns a moment later with our pile of discarded clothes. He tosses my pajama bottoms onto the mattress and starts pulling on his own gear with the practiced efficiency of a man who’s spent his life ready to move at a moment’s notice.

The silence between us isn’t awkward, but it’s crowded. The air is still thick with the scent of sex and banana nut muffins, a bizarre domesticity that we’re both already shedding like a second skin.

“You good to ride?” he asks, his voice back to its gravelly, “Club-first” tone as he cinches his belt.

“I’m always good to ride, don’t start worrying about me now.”

“It’s not worrying, Jay. I just don’t want to be the one to tell Guin you were late because you were daydreaming. She’s already on the warpath,” he says, slipping into his leather cut. “Let’s get to the Greenhouse. If Wood’s playing with hackers, we need to find out who’s holding his leash before he tries to tug on ours again.”

I realize I’ve been spinning my ring, and clench the hand into a fist. We both know what I was daydreaming about, and it wasn’t the Iron Roses.