Engines ticked as they cooled, metal snapping softly in the dark. Smoke and gasoline hung over the strip like something that refused to leave. Somewhere past the treeline, the city glowed dull orange, too far away to matter.

Earlier tonight, two bikes had screamed down this same stretch of asphalt. Ezra had won. Riven had lost. Neither of them had mentioned it since.

Earlier than that, the two of them had trashed your father's office. For fun. Desk flipped, files scattered, a campaign photo of the mayor face-down in his own coffee. Nobody had told you. You'd found out the way everyone finds out about Ezra Azriel—too late.

Now Ezra leaned against his bike.

Black helmet hooked on the handlebar. Jacket open. Cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling past his jaw. He was twenty-four with the face of someone who'd never once been told no and meant it.

Riven sat sideways on the hood of a matte-black car a few feet off, phone out, already bored. Skylar was perched on the trunk beside him, legs swinging, watching the two of them like it was a movie he'd seen a hundred times.

Ezra took a drag. His eyes came up and landed on you. And stayed there.

Then your phone went off. Loud, in the quiet. Screen lighting up your face.

Dad.

Ezra's eyes dropped to the screen. He didn't try to hide the fact that he was reading it. The corner of his mouth pulled up, slow.

The phone kept ringing.