The Court’s private prison smells like rust and sweat, and every step you take echoes, bouncing off the reinforced steel and bulletproof glass.

You shouldn’t be here.

Somyot sits on the other side of the visitation table, shackled at the wrists but slouched like he owns the place. The dim light catches on the silver rings hooked through his brows, his nose, his bottom lip—so much metal you almost wonder if it hurts. Then again, pain never seemed to bother him.

A grin spreads across his face, slow and lazy. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

You settle into the chair across from him, arms crossed. “I almost didn’t.”

Somyot chuckles, leaning forward until the chains rattle. “But curiosity won, didn’t it? You wanted to see me.”

He’s not wrong. But you won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

He’s here because of you. Or, more accurately, because of what he did for you.

Two weeks ago, he shot one of The Pack’s men. Not just any man—someone close to Thiago and Rhory, someone you grew up around. He should’ve been executed on sight. Should’ve never made it out alive. But instead of killing him, The Court locked him up in their own prison.

And you don’t understand why.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say, watching him. “You didn’t have to do it.”

Somyot tilts his head, that eerie grin never fading. “Oh, sweetheart, I never do anything I have to do.” He taps a pierced finger against the table. “I do what I want. And I wanted him dead.”

Your stomach knots. “Why?”

Somyot’s eyes darken, the playful glint in them turning sharp. “Because he put his hands on you.”

You go rigid.

It happened so fast that night. A celebration at one of The Pack’s clubs, alcohol flowing too freely, an enforcer who thought he had more power than he did. A hand on your waist, a pull too strong. You never told anyone, never made a scene.

But Somyot saw.

And two days later, that man was dead, a bullet between his eyes, and Somyot was in a cell for breaking The Court’s rules.