Page 96 of Glutton for Punishment

She nods. “Of course. But I thought Valentine said we should focus on the other siblings first?”

“We should.” I step toward the bed. “But now that word is spreading about your power, I need to confirm Duval is still with us before anything else.”

Understanding settles over her face. “This will be much easier than Kael,” I say.

“That’s a low bar,” she responds with a brow arched.

I try to tame the smirk that her sass always brings out of me.

“Duval is tough, not cruel. He believes in work, order, and minding his own business unless given reason otherwise. He won’t pull theatrics.”

Her shoulders ease.

“It won’t be like last time,” I promise.

Then I bend to kiss her. It’s soft and brief. She kisses me back without hesitation, and the simple fact that I can do that now nearly wrecks me.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

All I want is to climb back into bed and spend the day kissing her until neither of us can think straight. It’s so unlike me, but I can’t seem to care about the sappy fool I’ve become.

Right now, though, her safety comes first. And that means making sure we still have allies.

A few hours later, the helicopter lowers over the Iron Gut Quarter.

The moment we descend beneath the clouds, the skyline changes. Gone are the glittering towers and jeweled excess of central Gluttony. Iron Gut is steel, smoke, and labor.

Massive cargo cranes loom over the harbor like metal skeletons, their arms swinging crates between freighters and loading platforms with mechanical precision. Shipping containers stack in endless rows—rust red, navy, black—forming crooked corridors through the yard. Smoke curls from industrial stacks farther inland, carrying the scent of oil and burning metal through the air.

Workers move everywhere below us. They’re far from the polished and well-fed citizens from the wealthy territories.

But they’re strong and move with purpose.

Men and women in stained work clothes haul cargo, bark instructions over the sound of waves slapping against the docks. Sweat glistens on their skin. The boots they wear, worn in.

No one here is lounging, and no one here is starving either. Duval runs his territory the way he runs his people—hard but fair.

The helicopter lands on a steel platform overlooking the docks. Arwen steps out beside me as her eyes scan everything.

“It smells entirely different,” she mutters.

I snort. “It smells like ass.”

She gives me a flat look.

Duval’s men meet us and escort us through the sprawling dockyard toward the administrative building near the water. My team flanks behind me. I trust Duval, but I’d take a full army anywhere Arwen goes if it were an option.

His office is large but stripped of excess. Just steel beams, concrete walls, ledgers stacked in neat piles, maps pinned across one wall, and wide windows overlooking the harbor so he can monitor his operation.

Duval sits behind a simple metal desk. He doesn’t rise or smile when we enter.

I won’t deny he’s a mean-looking motherfucker. The guy is built broad, every inch of him earned through labor rather than vanity. His bald head catches the gray light from the windows. Sleeves shoved to the elbows, forearms dark with grease. Whatever he was doing before we arrived, it wasn’t paperwork.

His expression remains unreadable as we sit, so I let the silence stretch because I’d prefer to see how much he knows. But…

“I don’t have all day,” he says gruffly.

I incline my head once. “Thanks for seeing us.”