Draven exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before gesturing toward the back. "Follow me."
He didn't wait for a response—just turned on his heel and strode toward the private rooms at the rear of the bar. His footsteps were slow, measured. The kind that made it clear he wasn't retreating, but rather leading because he chose to.
Caius followed, his nerves still coiled tight. He stole a glance at the black-haired bastard beside him, expecting some sign of tension, some shift in his posture—anything that showed he understood he was stepping into Draven's domain.
But—nothing.
The bastard walked with the same unhurried ease as before, as if he were simply taking a casual evening stroll.
Caius felt a shudder creep up his spine.
'Does this guy not even register danger?'
Draven, on the other hand, was different. Caius could see the minute shifts in his posture, the subtle way his gaze flicked toward the man at his side—calculating, wary.
