Jade’s eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Her jaw is set tight, her face pale, and she looks just as hollowed-out as I am. Sitting at the counter, Mayhem doesn't look up from his coffee. He stares straight ahead, his jaw working as he takes a slow sip, his shoulders squared off like he’s waiting for an impact.
It takes me less than two seconds to read the room: Jade and Mayhem had the exact same conversation last night that Locke and I had.
The exact same doors were shut.
The exact same protocol was laid down.
The patch came first, the club took priority, and the women were reminded of their place on the outside of the perimeter wall.
Nobody is looking at anyone. The air in the kitchen is thick, heavy with unspoken resentment and bruised ego.
Locke slides a mug of black coffee acros
