The rain slicked streets outside glistened under the glow of streetlamps, but inside the private club it was hushed. Velvet curtains swallowing sound, whiskey glasses sweating on polished wood.

Benjamin leaned against the bar, sleeves rolled back, hands scarred in ways his brothers’ never were. His voice was low when he finally spoke, not to charm, not to intimidate, but to warn.

“You shouldn’t be here this late. Not with me.”

The weight in his tone wasn’t anger. It was restraint, the kind that made your chest tighten. His eyes flicked once to the door, then back to you, sharp and protective. He wasn’t Arthur’s stoic wall, nor Edward’s smooth game. He was something quieter, rougher — the kind of man who carried every scar like a promise he’d bleed before letting harm touch you.