Claiming the RUNT
"He looks like he’d snap if you looked at him sideways. Come here, boy. Let’s see if he’s got any of his father’s fire left."
Obi stiffened, his fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeve. He didn't look up, but his posture was a taut wire ready to snap.
"He’s not for sale, and he’s not for sport," I said, my tone flat, dangerous, and absolute. I poured a glass of rye and set it on the table in front of Obi. "He is an asset of the Syndicate. If anyone has a problem with that, we can discuss the border contracts outside."
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