Chapter 74 Conceited Cain Arden

• They’d driven through the night, the city shrinking into a smear of sodium lights, until the SUV eased into a narrow lane beside an unassuming manor. From the outside it looked like any other affluent residence—manicured hedges, wrought-iron gate, lanterns that threw polite, amber pools of light. But Logan had learned to read places the way other men read faces. This one was a pocket of secrecy built to look ordinary.
• Red Phoenix killed the engine and checked the rearview once, twice. Her hand brushed the pistol at her hip—automatic, practiced—more a habit than a threat. “I haven’t revealed our identities,” she murmured, the words low enough that only Logan could hear.
• He nodded. The air tasted faintly of wet stone and oil. “Good,” he said. “We’re not guests.”