That brief touch of concern—quiet, unfeigned—threw him off balance more than any threat could.
For a moment, he saw no predator in her eyes.
And just like that, Ryley wasn't sure anymore who he was dealing with.
Not an enemy. But not an ally either.
Ryley retracted his hand, gaze dropping to the floor as his voice came out low and uncertain.
"It's… it's nothing." He glanced toward Clyde, then back at the woman before him, bitterness creeping into his tone. "If you're going to hand me over to Vincent, I won't fight it. Just… please. Tell me what's wrong with Clyde."
Madam Beckett's brows lifted ever so slightly.
The instant her eyes met his—a gaze soaked with desperation and guilt—she understood.
In that fragile, reckless loyalty, she saw exactly why Clyde had fallen so hopelessly for this boy.
