Chapter 117. Wryn Hudel
The bassline was a heartbeat inside a cracked ribcage—loud, uneven, desperate. The air hung thick with sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke, curling like a lazy ghost through the dim, colored lights. At the back of the club, half-swallowed by shadows and synthetic fog, Wryn Hudel was laughing too loudly, a glass of amber poison in his hand, another bottle already halfway gone at his feet.
He leaned against a booth, surrounded by men with sharp jaws and dead eyes, a pack of wolves without a leader. One of them snorted a line off a phone screen. Another was halfway into a girl’s neck like he thought he could drink her. Wryn was louder than all of them, his voice breaking through the music like a blade through silk.
"She thinks she’s a fucking queen just because she wears a skirt and carries a tray," Wryn slurred, flinging his wrist in the direction of the bar. The waitress—barely older than twenty—was working through a tray of glowing cocktails, jaw clenched like it might shatter. "Bet she’d moan like a bitch if I paid her enough. Or just cornered her right."
The table howled with laughter. The girl didn’t look up, but her grip tightened around the tray.
Not far off, in a corner booth that looked half-private but saw everything, three men sat nursing their drinks. Their table was silent. Watching.
Adrian leaned forward, his silver eyes locked on Wryn’s every movement. His long black hair was loose tonight, brushing his sharp jawline, casting elegant shadows across his pale skin. His glass was untouched.
Ethan sat beside him, tall and still, a perfectly sculpted weapon of a man in civilian disguise. Black eyes, black hair, fitted in a shirt that strained subtly across his broad shoulders. He looked like he belonged in a war zone, not a club, but no one dared look at him too long. His hand rested over Adrian’s on the table—casual, possessive.
Across from them, Augustin swirled his drink. His brown hair was neat, but his honey-colored eyes were sharp, watching Wryn the way a hunter watches for movement in tall grass. His white shirt was crisp, open at the collar, gentlemanly, his posture clean. No one who didn’t know better would have seen the coiled violence behind his ease.
"I don’t like the way he talks," Adrian murmured. His voice was low, barely carrying over the music.
"I don’t like the way he exists," Ethan replied, his tone flat, husky, final.
"You think he’s connected?" Augustin asked, tilting his glass slightly.
Adrian nodded, jaw tight. "Too many coincidences. He was there the night that leak happened. And now he’s here. Saying too much. Drinking too loud."