My fingers curl around the cheap velvety material. I glide it over, and my nostrils are stung by a heavy cloud of oak and mint as the shoulder of two men slowly come into view beyond the silky smoke.

I vaguely hear someone say it’s time to go.

I pull farther but am halted by a steely grip to my wrist, forcing me to release the thick curtain before I manage to move it a full inch.

My gaze locks with Ransom’s, and my lungs squeeze.

He’s the picture of rage. His forehead is strained with firm lines, his jaw thrust forward and clenched tightly.

His teeth are clamped shut, his grip tight and trembling. I should yank from his hold, but staring into his marble-like eyes, I can’t.

There’s something within them, a contrast of his expression, of his words and the tone in which he delivered them. This is deeper. This isn’t about anger.

So, I nod, and walk backward, my fingers gently latching on to his wrist as he still holds mine.

He walks with me, and after a few steps, we’re shifted, facing forward and stepping back onto the main floor.

Without another word, and with strong, confident strides, we leave the way we came, climb inside the car, and roll out into the night.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes go by, before the tension begins to subside and Arsen, now in the driver’s seat, turns the music on low.

I seek out Ransom in the side mirror, finding his eyes closed tight, head dropped back on the seat.

He seems tortured, at a loss.

Defeated.

“Where to, my man?” Beretta asks, but nobody answers.

Ransom makes no move at all, while Arsen looks toward the clock, a low sigh following.

Beretta pulls his phone out, but quickly locks it, glancing out at the night with a tight drawn frown and low fought groan.

I flick my gaze over them once more and something stirs beneath my ribs.

The time on the stereo reads two in the morning, and I get the feeling they either don’t want to go home... or they can’t.

We were about to start the night all over again, likely ring in the sunrise behind those doors, but the fresh energy we went in with converted to a heavy weight with our exit.

“Go to my house,” I say, focused on the road ahead.

No one speaks the entire drive there, not even when Arsen pulls up to the curb in front of the walkway leading to my front door.

I unbuckle, grabbing my purse from the floorboard, and push the door open, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

I turn back, my eyes moving along the three, all staring right at me, and I raise my brows.

“Well...” I draw out. “Are you coming?”