I’d like to say he focused on me for my charming personality and irresistible dimples, but it wasn’t that.

It was a torture tactic that the ruthless, bearded bastard loved to use.

Make his enemy sweat. Draw it out. The morbid anticipation and sick suspense became almost corporal as it filled the room.

“Ay,” he greeted, forcing casual as he gave me a shoulder slap. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. How’s the wifey?”

Nothing about the way he grinned was forced. “Fookin’ perfection. Fookin’ magic.”

That was all he said about his pregnant wife, but it said enough.

Ophelia wasn’t a Mayhem brother, but she was closer than some prospects or nomads. She went on runs, helped where needed, and Judge didn’t hold shit back if she asked.

Nox’s wife, Augusta—or Gus—wasn’t like that. She preferred not to know the specifics, and he happily obliged.

He didn’t want his shadows touching her sunshine.

Like Judge and Ophelia, their system worked for them.

“Getting excited?” I asked.

“Getting busy.” At my brow raise, Nox shook his head as he ran a hand across his red beard. “Not like that, you fookin’ muppet. She’s got me rearranging the apartment, painting, all that shit. She’ll get it perfect, then wake up the next day and want it back like it was.”

That sounded like a pain in the ass, but his face didn’t hold a hint of annoyance or inconvenience.

He was happy.

Fuckin’ thrilled.

The guy in the chair started whimpering, but we both ignored it. If Nox was after him, it was because he deserved to suffer. And since I’d found him trying to roofie drinks in a douchebag bar, he deserved worse than whatever hell Nox was gonna put him through.

Instead, I asked about the missing member of Nox’s usual trio. “Where’s Beck?”

Matt gave a muffled laugh from his spot by the door.

Nox shot me a deadpan look, already channeling his disappointed dad vibe. “Benched at my warehouse.”

“Grounded,” Matt put in before going back to robotic.

Every Mayhem brother had been benched at some point for already being too drunk, too high, or too exhausted when an impromptu job came in. Or for getting too heated, too invested, or too murderous when a job hit hard.

But I’d never seen Matt or Beck step outta line. Hell, I barely saw them show emotion.

Definitely nothing that’d get them pulled.

“What for?” I asked.

“Got a little too happy with a chef’s torch,” Nox said.

Swedes had one of those from his days in the kitchen. He used it to light blunts, but it’d been for dessert. “Making a crème brûlée?”

“Burning a fooker’s nipples off.”

I could almost feel the phantom burn. “Shit.”