The door opened, and the cold air of the Pacific Northwest rushed in. Bryant stood there, his shadow stretching across the pavement like a warning. He didn’t offer a hand; he never did. He simply waited for her to step into the chaos he called a life.
"I don't wait for anyone else," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed her ear. "But you weren't chosen by them, Isa. You were chosen by the blood. You belong to the crown, and the crown belongs to me."
Midnight in the underground circuit of the Silver Lake elite felt like a velvet noose—expensive, suffocating, and impossible to escape. Isa sat in the back of the obsidian SUV, her fingers tracing the jagged crest embroidered into the leather seats. It was the mark of the King—not a man chosen by the people, but one crowned by the dark hand of fate.