He doesn’t take the bait.

“First, Cassian buys that fucking bar, and now you’re setting up shop? That’s the last thing this town needs.”

“Parlor,” I correct because I’m judicious like that.

“You know what the fuck I mean.”

I huff out a laugh. “You came all the way down here just to tell me I don’t belong? Please, say something new.”

He lets his gaze sweep over the space again like he’s trying to find more reasons to be pissed off.

“This isn’t Seattle,” he says after a moment.

“No shit.”

“And you’re not staying.”

My jaw ticks. “That right?”

“You don’t settle, Atlas. You pass through. You disappear. And when you do, you leave a mess behind.”

I laugh because he doesn’t know a damn thing about me. Sure, I don’t have a home base, and I move from shop to shop, but I never leave a fucking mess behind. I just don’t settle.

“Sounds like a personal problem, Mal.” I cross my arms. “No wonder the FBI kicked you out, and you had to become a rent-a-cop for this town. You’ve got a lot of issues. Thought about getting some therapy?”

His jaw twitches. I hit a nerve. I expect him to throw a punch or storm out, but instead, he shifts his stance, all business now. “I don’t know why you’re back, and honestly, I don’t care. But I need you to know one thing.”

I tilt my head, waiting.

“If you bring trouble here, I will personally make sure you regret it.”

“You should be more worried about the trouble already creeping into your town, Sheriff.” My voice stays even. “Should I remind you of the shit show I had to help you clean up a few months ago? Nysa almost died because . . . the point is that the fucking Hollow Syndicate is still around. You can’t possibly be blaming me for any mess that might happen here.”

Malerick’s brow furrows slightly. He goes quiet. I hit something. I know a little about what’s going on with the Syndicate—maybe not everything, but enough. Being here has nothing to do with them. If anything, he’s more likely to need my help than for me to cause havoc just because I opened a parlor.

It’s clear the conversation is over. He needs to get the hell out of here before I stop playing nice. I walk past him, unlock the door, and hold it open. “You can show yourself out.”

Malerick hesitates for half a second, then steps through without another word.

I watch him walk back to his patrol truck, his shoulders tense, his movements clipped.

When he pulls away, I lock the door behind him and exhale slowly, rolling out the tension in my own muscles.