Pauline’s Dad POV
The fire crackled softly, throwing long shadows against the walls of the man’s cave we were sitting. The air smelled of pine, spiced rum, and the faint burn of candle wax. Everyone had a drink in hand—some clutched it like a shield, others swirled theirs idly, waiting.
Pauline, of course, was the one who pushed.
“Dad,” she said, her tone half-light, half-knife. “You know something. I don’t care if it sounds crazy, or dark, or illegal. But we’re here now. You owe me.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just raised the glass of whisky in my hand, let it warm my lips, and took the kind of long, deliberate sip that said this is gonna be bad.
When I lowered it, everyone was watching. The triplet alphas had that stiff, unreadable stillness I recognized from men who had seen too
