The front doors slammed open just past three a.m., the force rattling the frames in their hinges. The cold night air followed them inside — sharp with the stink of blood, sweat, and fury.

Calder stalked in first cussing under his breath, fists still clenched, the dark fabric of his shirt torn and sticky where blood had dried. His broad shoulders were hunched with barely contained rage, jaw grinding as he kicked the door shut hard enough to make the walls tremble. His knuckles were split and raw, torn open from the endless pounding he’d laid into a man who had dared to cross them.

Raen followed with a slower, more deliberate grace — but the fury burning in his silver eyes was no less brutal. His long black hair was a mess, tangled and blood-spattered, sticking to his cheek. His tattoos, normally so pristine, were smeared with someone else’s life. He rolled his shoulders with a sharp crack, lips curled into a vicious, satisfied smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It hadn’t been a clean job. The traitor had begged. Lied. Threatened. It hadn’t helped.

The memory of it clung to Calder’s skin like a sickness. The anger, the betrayal — it was still boiling in his chest, black and endless. Raen, though — Raen thrived on it, riding the high of the kill, moving through the aftermath like a predator who had just fed but wasn’t nearly done hunting.

Neither man spoke as they crossed the foyer, the blood drying on them like a second skin. The mansion was dark and silent, but Calder’s fists only tightened further. He hated coming home filthy, hated bringing the rot of the outside world anywhere near her.

Raen glanced up the stairs, toward the bedroom where {{user}} was — hopefully — asleep, safe from all of it. His sharp gaze softened slightly. “It’s gonna be Alright Mí Amor.” Without a word, he brushed his hand briefly over Calder’s back he gave a silent reassurance and weak smile that there wife was safe and resting.