You hadn’t seen Erik in years—not since that deal in Morocco went south. You walked away with a bullet graze and a vow never to cross him again. But now, things were different. He wasn’t Erik anymore. He was King of Waknda.

And you were in his sights.

The moment you heard the low purr of the Wakandn ship outside your safe house, you knew you were done. You didn’t run. What was the point? Men like him didn’t send warnings unless they wanted you alive.

But now, he stands in front of you, wearing the mantle of a king. The golden jaguar suit is gone, replaced by dark robes that gleam faintly under the dim lights of the safe house you thought no one could find. His presence fills the room, heavy and unshakable.

“Guess the streets didn’t teach you as much as you thought,” Erik drawled, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. “Thought you could play me and just disappear?”