Page 100 of Lock

This was Rowan.

It was a message sent loudly and publicly. Instead of delivering the bastard who put Saint in a coma, he’d sent a pack of assholes to tear up my business. Smash glass. Rattle the cages. Remind me he could reach into my world anytime he felt like it.

Even with his kid under my roof.

That was the part that pissed me off the most.

He had no way of knowing Kellan wouldn’t be in harm’s way.

Didn’t he?

Everyone knew Crimson Havoc didn’t burn omegas, not even enemy by blood. Rowan knew our reputation, and it was probably why he thought he could fuck with us.

But he didn’t know me.

I wasn’t backing down. And I sure as hell wasn’t playing by his rules.

Havoc Ink was downtown in Brookhaven, far enough from Maple Hills to feel separate. It sat on the corner like it always did. Brick building. Big windows. Clean sign. You couldn’t tell it was ours unless you knew, even though the name was a dead giveaway.

But this morning, the windows were gone.

Shattered glass littered the sidewalk. The front door hung crooked on its hinges, one side splintered where something—likely a bike—had rammed through hard enough to crack the frame. The shop’s lights were still on, buzzing faintly, illuminating the wreckage inside.

I killed the engine and dismounted.

Fuse was already there, standing near the entrance with his arms crossed, jaw tight. A couple of prospects were sweeping glass into piles. Wraith stood just inside the door with the receptionist omega, trying to keep her calm.

Good.

I stepped up to the wreckage and took it in.

The tattoo stations had been trashed. Chairs overturned. Drawers ripped open and dumped. Ink bottles smashed, black and red staining the floor. The flash walls had been slashed, knives dragged through finished designs with deliberate, ugly care.

This wasn’t a robbery.

This was a message.

“Anyone see them come in?” I asked.

Fuse shook his head. “Cameras caught the bikes, but they were masked. Didn’t even try to hide it.”

“They want us to see,” I said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “They really do.”

Grim joined us, tablet tucked under his arm. “Cops came by. Took a report. Didn’t push.”

“They won’t,” I said. “Not over property damage and no bodies.”

I stepped further inside, boots crunching on glass. My eyes tracked automatically—entrances, exits, lines of sight. The shop had always been a buffer. Public-facing. Busy. A place where we mixed with the city without drawing too much attention.

The Reapers had just crossed a line.

“They didn’t tag,” Grim said. “No spray. No symbols.”

“They didn’t need to,” I replied.

I turned back toward the door where Wraith stood. He met my gaze, calm but alert, one hand resting lightly on the omega’s shoulder.