Alyssa
When we step inside the clubhouse, I'm hit with a wave of testosterone and tension so thick, I almost choke on it. Two massive men stand at the door, their muscles bulging like they either live at the gym or spend their days breaking bones. Thankfully, they barely acknowledge me as we walk by, though I can feel their eyes lingering on my back.
The clubhouse is bigger than I imagined. To my right, there's a lounge area with sleek red couches; ahead, a bar lined with bottles of every kind of alcohol. On the wall is the Crimson Reaper's patch—the grim reaper with blood dripping down his scythe. The place feels oddly familiar, like I've been here before, but it's probably only because I've seen it in the background of old photos of my dad.
Zuri's alert in her stroller, her eyes sur
