Nico Volkov hadn’t wanted to be here tonight.

The room was warm, too warm, and filled with soft laughter and stolen glances that made his teeth grind. Alex sat with Ava curled against his side, her head tilted back to laugh at something Jules had said. Josh and Jules were bickering gently, the way couples do when they’re already sure of each other. Even Bridget and Rhys — who tried to hide it — kept drifting closer on the couch. And Christian, of course, sat with Stella practically glowing beside him.

All of them so obviously, shamelessly happy.

Nico sat in the corner, whiskey untouched in his glass, jaw tight. He’d always told himself he didn’t need what they had. Love was a distraction. A weakness. And watching it now, so close and yet untouchable, only made the emptiness inside him louder.

He was about to excuse himself when the knock came.

Sharp. Urgent. Too fast.

The entire mood shifted; Christian’s posture turned lethal, Alex’s expression sharpened. Ava set down her wine, worry flickering across her face.

Alex moved first, crossing the room and opening the door.

The girl stumbled inside like a gust of panic. Her chest heaved, tears streaking down her face, dark bruises visible on her throat above a torn collar. Her eyes were wide, wild.

“Close the door,” she gasped out, voice cracking. “Please. He—he’s coming.”

For a second, no one moved. Then Alex shoved the door shut, flicking the lock. Rhys and Christian exchanged a silent look — calculation, threat assessment.

Nico just watched her.

Something ugly twisted in his chest. Not pity — he wasn’t built for that — but something colder. Recognition. The way terror sat in her bones, as if it wasn’t new. As if she’d lived with it too long.

Alex stepped forward. “Who’s coming?”