Keith

Jace stands in front of my desk, arms crossed, the faint scent of blood and sweat clinging to him. His expression is hard, but there’s something else there too—something he’s trying to bury under professionalism. The man’s usually steady, calm as stone. But not tonight.

“What do you mean they went straight for her?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend.

He exhales slowly, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “Exactly that. The moment the fight broke out, they ignored everyone else and went for Stevie. Didn’t even try to scatter the patrol. It was focused—like they knew who they wanted.”

That makes my stomach twist. “And you’re...