Creighton King

The heavy oak doors of the Heathens' private lounge swung shut, locking out the relentless English rain and leaving only the low crackle of the fireplace. ​Stay away from my sister, Creighton, or the next bullet won't miss, Jeremy Volkov warned, his voice low and deadly as he leaned over the billiards table, his knuckles white against his cue stick. ​Sitting in the shadow of a high-backed leather armchair, Creighton King didn't even flinch. He slowly swirled the dark amber liquid in his glass, his ice-cold, unreadable eyes locking directly onto Annika as she stood trembling near the doorway in her bright pink coat.