Page 75 of Brox Boar

My heart knocks once, sharp. “Brox–”

His voice drops. “You’ll be fine.”

I don’t feel fine. Still, I swing off the bike, my legs shaky from the ride.

Brox rolls the bike a few meters away, toward a spot where it won’t draw attention. I can see his focus narrowing. He’s preparing.

I turn to the bar door and push it open.

Warmth hits me first. Then smoke. Then noise.

The bar is dim, lit by low amber lamps. Music pulses through the floor. Men are scattered at tables, drinking, watching, at this time of the day, nearly noon. There are a few women too, their eyes sharp.

I step inside and immediately feel every gaze land on me like hands.

I keep my chin up and walk forward, forcing my body to move as if I belong.

A man near the bar turns, and my breath catches. For a second, my brain insists it’s Brox.

Same height. Same build. Same face in the bones—hard lines, strong jaw, that particular expression that looks dangerous.

He’s not wearing a suit. He’s in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, forearms inked. His hair is slightly different–lighter, maybe. His eyes–different color. But the resemblance hits me so hard I stop walking.

He looks at me and his brow lifts, amused.

“Lost?” he asks.

My throat goes dry. “Brox?”

His mouth curves into something that could pass for a smile if it wasn’t sharpened by surprise. “That’s not my name.”

I stare at him, confused enough that I forget to be cautious. “You– you look–”

“I’m Rex,” he says, and he shifts on his stool, turning more fully toward me. His gaze flicks over my jeans, my cardigan, my face. Something sharpens in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asks.

Before I can answer, motion ripples around me. Chairs scrape. Men are on their feet. The air tightens.

A hand touches my elbow from behind–firm, possessive.

I whirl and almost collide with Brox as he steps in, close enough that his body blocks mine from half the room.

His eyes land on the man at the bar.

For a second, the entire place stands still.

There are two of them.

Two men so alike it unsettles the room.

The man at the bar stares openly now, his amusement gone, replaced by something wary and fascinated.

“Well,” he says, slow. “What the hell is this?”

Brox’s voice stays even. “I’m looking for your boss.”

Laughter ripples through the room, not friendly. Men close in from the sides, forming a loose ring around us. The bartender stops wiping a glass. Someone turns the music down a notch as if the room wants to hear this clearly.

One of the men, broad shoulders, heavy gold necklace, steps closer. “What makes you think you get to walk in here and make demands?”