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I drew up short. Craig was already there.

He stood in the center of the room like he belonged to it, sleeves rolled up, black button-down molding to his chest like it’d been tailored for the sole purpose of ruining me. He was calm, relaxed even.

My heart did something stupid in my chest.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly when I got close enough. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a statement, spoken in that warm, even voice that always made me want to confess things I hadn’t even done yet.

“Not really,” I muttered. Craig’s brow lifted as he looked from me to Leighton.

“Leighton,” he said, voice still soft but edged with steel. “What happened?”

“She took a hit to the face,” Leighton said, unrepentant. “Good thing we only planned on bringing a couple. I lost my temper. Shot three. Left two for you. Figured that was generous, but she’s all mad about it.”

“I’m mad you weredramaticabout it.”

He looked over his shoulder at me with a grin. “Dramatic is my middle name,Ma Petit. That, or bloodthirsty. You pick.”

Craig didn’t say anything; he just met my eyes across the space as Leighton manhandled the last body into position. He held my gaze as he moved, shackling wrists to the chairs that had been bolted to the floor since we’d last used them. They used to slide around the floor when someone fought too hard. Not anymore. I shifted on my feet, suddenly not as steady as I’d felt a few minutes ago.

Craig must’ve noticed. Of course he did. He always did. His voice came softer when he finally spoke again, still busy tightening the restraints.

“You’re observing today. That’s it. No hands-on until Az clears it. We need you sharp, not shaken.”

“I’m not shaken.” His gaze flicked up to me again. He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.

Leighton finished securing the second man and cracked his knuckles like he was getting ready for a game instead of torture. “You want me to stick around, or…?”

Craig shook his head. “I’ve got it from here. Go clean up. You got a phone call to make. We’ll debrief later.”

“Sweet. Text me if you need a shovel.” He whistled a little tune as he strolled out, like he hadn’t just delivered two half-dead men into a murder room with the casual flair of a pizza delivery driver. Then it was just me, Craig, and the faint hum of overhead fluorescents that buzzed like they were keeping secrets. He turned toward me fully, wiping his hands on a dark rag he pulled from his back pocket. His eyes were unreadable, and something in him was different. Like he was hovering between the Craig I knew and the Underboss I’d never seen him be before.

“You okay?” he asked. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to meet his steady gaze and be a girl unfazed by what came next. Instead, I looked at the bruises already blooming on one of the Jackals’ faces. The blood crusting his temple. The memories that tugged at the edges of my mind.

“I don’t know.” Craig didn’t push. He just stepped close enough for his presence to wrap around me like heat from a fire and gently brushed his fingers along the edge of my jaw, his thumb ghosting over the swelling of my lip.

“I hated seeing that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“To me?” His voice dropped an octave. “It’s not nothing.” I swallowed hard. He stepped back slowly, giving me space but not letting go of the weight of his gaze. “Stay to the side. Watch everything. The way I move. The pressure I use. Where I cut. Where I don’t. This isn’t just about getting answers. It’s aboutdiscipline, and controlling the situation.” I nodded once, sharper than I meant to. He gave me the faintest smile. “Good. Let’s begin.”

He pulled on a pair of black nitrile gloves, flexing his fingers as he walked toward the table near the wall. The tools were already laid out in a perfect row—scalpels, pliers, clamps, things I didn’t know the name for but had seen used before. There was a surgical method to the madness.

When Craig turned back toward the first Jackal, his entire demeanor shifted. His shoulders squared. His face went still. And just like that, the man I shared a bed with sometimes, who held me after nightmares, who wrapped rope around me like I was something precious, was gone. In his place was the Underboss of the Horsemen.

I should have been watching the Jackals.

Should’ve been cataloging their micro-reactions, their tells, their words, what little they said between grunts of pain and strangled silences. But I wasn’t.

I was watchinghim.

Craig moved with the slow, precise rhythm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much of it he could live with later. He approached the first Jackal with a stillness like he’d already made peace with what he was about to do and didn’t see the need for drama or cruelty.

Each question is punctuated by a calculated action. A shallow cut along a tendon. A slow twist of pressure on a dislocated finger. Nothing sloppy. Nothing cruel for the sake of cruelty. Craig didn’t flinch when blood hit his gloves. He didn’t pause when the man screamed or when the second one started to panic against his restraints. He just adjusted the chair’s angle slightly, like he was rearranging furniture, and continued to ask his questions in that same steady voice.

I didn’t flinch. I should have, maybe. But I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His hands moved with complete control. Like he’d studied every vein, every nerve ending and knew exactly how deep to go to hurt without killing, how long to hold before the body broke and the mind gave in.

There was something terrifyingly beautiful about it. Not because of the violence. But because of therestraint. There was something almost reverent in the way he worked. The way he cleaned the scalpel between each pass and spoke directly to the man in the chair like he mattered, even when he was tearing answers out of him an inch of flesh at a time. I wasn’t prepared for that.