From my perch on the grime-streaked crown molding, the world was a fractured mosaic of neon and shadow. My multifaceted eyes processed the room in a thousand flickering images, but my focus remained anchored to the back of Jonathan’s neck. Through the bond, I could taste the sudden, pathetic spike of adrenaline as his "brothers" mentioned a woman.
Luci.
I watched with cold, clinical amusement as Jonathan tried to inflate his chest, donning a mask of "forced confidence" that smelled like cheap sweat and desperation.
“Well, if Luci’s looking, she’ll have to get in line,” he bragged, throwing out a crooked, practiced grin that didn't reach his eyes. “A man like me is in high demand. It’s a lot of work maintaining a rotation that deep. Being a player is a full-time job, boys.”
I could have
