A Father’s Price

[Tobias's POV]

We stood in the shadows behind the bakery, the scent of yeast and burnt sugar still clinging to the air despite the late hour.

The streets were quiet, but not empty—never empty. Somewhere in the distance, the faint shuffle of feet, the murmur of voices, the slum still breathing in the dark.

Rowan stood at the front, hands in his pockets, his posture deceptively at ease. But I knew better.

Knew that beneath the stillness was a mind already five steps ahead, calculating every possibility, every reaction, every move Marcus might make.

It was the way he carried himself—like the world had already unfolded exactly as he wanted it to. Like this wasn't a risk at all, just a script playing out as expected.

I shifted, glancing at Talia. She was tense but quiet, her eyes trained on the empty street beyond.

No one had come yet. No sign of Marcus. And that was the question twisting inside me—would he even show?

If he did, would he come alone?

And if he didn't, what then?

The silence stretched, heavy with waiting, thick with the weight of unanswered questions. My fingers twitched toward the knife at my side, not out of fear, but anticipation.

The night was balanced on the edge of a blade, and soon, one way or another, it would tip.

A sound cut through the quiet. Footsteps. Quick. Uneven. A man walking alone but carrying the weight of something heavy—doubt, fear, desperation.

Rowan's smirk barely shifted as he exhaled through his nose, amused, like a cat watching a mouse scurry straight into its claws. His voice dropped into a whisper, just enough for Talia and me to hear.

"Get ready."

We melted into the shadows, slipping behind crates and the bakery's worn brick wall. The steps came closer, then hesitated. A pause. A breath held too long.

There he was. Marcus.

Alone.

Rowan had called it, as he always did. No backup, no Angels lurking in the dark. Just a desperate father, standing uncertainly in the open ground behind the bakery, his gaze flicking between the building and the empty alley.

Then—

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

The sound was soft, rhythmic. Rowan, tapping a gloved finger against the flat of his dagger, the motion lazy, absentminded. But there was nothing careless about it. It was a predator's patience, the slow coil of something waiting to strike.

Marcus turned sharply, his breath hitching just enough to betray him. "You here?" he asked, voice strained at the edges, like he already hated the answer.

Rowan took his time.

One step. Then another. Measured. Controlled. The mask hid his face, but it didn't need to. His presence alone was enough.

"You've kept me waiting."

The words were almost a purr, dragged out just enough to make Marcus flinch before he straightened, forcing himself to stand taller. But it wasn't enough to hide the tremor in his breath.

He swallowed hard, then let out a shaky exhale. "Where is my son? Do you really have him?"

The plea cracked at the edges, but Rowan didn't answer right away. He tilted his head, considering, like he had all the time in the world. When he spoke, his voice was soft—too soft.

Rowan tilted his head, letting the question hang. "He's breathing," he said, voice soft, too soft. "Asked for you last night. Wondered why you stopped looking."

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

This time a little faster. Like the clock was ticking.

"Guess he's still waiting." 

The mask obscured his expression, but I knew what was beneath it. A smile. Cold. Amused. Like this was all just another game. And Marcus?

Marcus was already losing.

For a moment, just a fraction of a breath, something flickered in Marcus' eyes. Hope. A fragile, fleeting thing.

But just as quickly as it came, it was snuffed out, buried beneath something rawer, darker—rage. The kind that simmers in silence before it boils over.

"You bastards!" The words tore from his throat, shaking with fury. His fists clenched at his sides, his breath uneven. "What did you do to him?!"

Then, something shifted. His face tensed, the fire in his eyes dimming as suspicion slid into place.

He took a step back, his head shaking once, twice. "Wait—why should I believe you?" His voice was hoarse now, desperate but unwilling to break. "How do I know you really have him?"

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

I glanced at Rowan, but of course, he was already moving. A quiet tsk left his lips, a sound of amusement, of boredom, of a man who had already won before the game had even begun.

With a flick of his wrist, something small and metallic caught the moonlight, spinning through the air before landing soundlessly at Marcus' feet.

A ring.

Marcus' breath hitched. He stared at it for half a second too long before dropping to his knees, scooping it up with trembling fingers.

Recognition dawned in his eyes, wide and wild. His lips parted, barely forming the words. "You—this is Mark's—"

"Took it off him just yesterday." Rowan's voice cut through the night, cold and casual. He shifted slightly, weight settling on one foot, utterly unbothered. "Needed it more than him, you know?"

No emotion. No regret. Just the slow, deliberate tightening of the noose.

Marcus sat frozen, his fingers curling around the ring, knuckles white. The rage that had burned so hot just moments ago had been replaced by something else. Something worse.

The beginning of despair. And with the despair came the sound.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

That slow, deliberate tapping, rhythmic as a heartbeat, relentless as a war drum. The dagger in Rowan's hand glinted under the dim light, his fingers tapping its hilt in measured beats.

Not impatient—no, Rowan never rushed. This was something else. A predator's amusement. A silent reminder of control.

Marcus flinched. Barely. A twitch at the corner of his eye, the slightest stiffening of his shoulders. To the untrained, it would have been nothing. To us, it was everything.

His fingers clenched tighter around the ring. His breathing, once steady, now came uneven. When he finally spoke, the fire had dimmed from his voice.

"What do you want from me, man?" The question was strained, almost pleading, as if he already knew the answer but still clung to some dying hope that it could be something—anything—else.

Rowan tilted his head slightly, an exaggerated motion, mocking curiosity. As if the answer was so obvious, it hardly needed saying. And yet, he indulged him.

"I want only one thing from you, Marcus." His voice was quiet, deliberate, each word a thread in the web he was spinning.

Then, a pause—just long enough to let the tension coil tighter, just long enough for the air to feel heavier. "I want you to help me destroy Victor."

The words dropped like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the night.

Marcus stiffened. His jaw worked, but no words came. He didn't need to speak—the hesitation in his silence was loud enough.

Rowan took a slow step forward, his presence pressing in, suffocating. "The man who caused your son's kidnapping," he continued, his tone like silk over a blade. "Because he does what he wants. Because he plays god among men."

Another step. Marcus didn't back away, but he might as well have. His body screamed tension, his grip white-knuckled around the ring.

"He is the real enemy." Rowan's voice dropped lower, each word carving itself into the space between them. "He is the one who dragged you into this mess. It's because of him that you suffer now. Remember that."

The night stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. And Rowan—Rowan just watched.

"Maybe you're right..." Marcus muttered, the words barely escaping his lips, like he was afraid speaking them too loudly might make them real.

His fingers tightened around the ring, thumb tracing its worn edges. A nervous habit, or maybe an unconscious plea for reassurance. His breath hitched, and then— "Maybe he is the cause."

For a moment, his gaze drifted, lost in some private battle. Then his head snapped back up, eyes locked onto Rowan with a desperate sharpness. "If I do that—if I betray Victor—you'll return my son?"

The skepticism was there, a waver at the edges of his voice. A sliver of doubt clinging to him like the last embers of a dying fire.

But doubt didn't matter. What mattered was the hope beneath it, fragile and starving. The kind of hope that a broken man clung to, even when deep down, he knew better.

Beneath the mask, Rowan's smirk was a ghost of a thing—just a slight curve of the lips, subtle enough that only I noticed. A predator indulging in the dance before the kill.

"If you do a good job," Rowan said, his voice smooth, patient, almost kind—almost.

"Not only will your son be returned to you, but I will ensure you rise to your rightful place. Leader of your men. No longer a soldier under another man's rule, but the one they look to, the one they follow."

He let the words settle, their weight pressing down like hands on Marcus's shoulders. Then, softer now, almost a whisper—"I just need one thing from you, Marcus."

Rowan leaned in slightly, and even in the dim light, I could see the tension coil in Marcus's body, his muscles locking up.

"Betray Victor."

The night held its breath. And so did Marcus.

Marcus's breath came slow and measured, but I could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Then, with resolve in his eyes, he nodded. A single nod. Simple, quiet—yet it carried the weight of his fate, the moment he surrendered his will to a man far more dangerous than he could possibly comprehend.

A man I had known for years, but only recently begun to understand.

"Okay," he said, voice steady, though something in it frayed at the edges. "I'll do it. I just want my son back."

For a long moment, Rowan didn't speak. He simply stood there, unreadable behind the mask, letting Marcus stew in the choice he had just made.

Then, with an almost lazy motion, he reached out and patted Marcus's shoulder—twice. Not reassuring. Not kind. It was more like a mark, a quiet claim.

Rowan turned on his heel, his movements precise, unhurried. "I will send my allies to contact you," he said, his voice a thread of silk laced with iron.

Then, without looking back, he added, "And I trust I don't have to remind you what happens if Victor so much as suspects a shift in the wind?"

Marcus swallowed, his throat bobbing once. He gave a curt nod, but I could tell he already knew—there would be no mercy if he wavered. No second chances.

Then we disappeared into the night, our footsteps swallowed by the darkness. And behind us, lingering in the cold air, came the sound.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.