“She was never just taking out another Heart elite,” Jameson continued, ignoring the tension as his voice dropped without losing an ounce of intensity. “Greyson represents everything she lost. The man executes rebels in the same plaza where her parents were murdered by his father. You made it personal the moment you gave her that contract.”

  A muscle in Jaeger’s jaw twitched. “She’s a professional, she knew the risks.”

  “She’s a woman with a fucking vendetta,” Jameson countered. “One you encouraged and exploited. You may not have wanted to see it because she is your best, but knew she’d get sloppy with him. You knew she’d want to see his face, to make him understand why she was killing him. That’s why she got caught, the only way she would’ve ever been caught—because she made it personal.”

  A man stepped forward, one hand twisting a silencer into his gun.

  “That’s enough,” he growled.

  “Stand down, Reeve,” Jaeger ordered without looking away from Jameson.

  Jameson didn’t wait for Jaeger to respond to him. The dam had broken, and words poured out of him like blood from a severed artery.

  “You know what she told me that night? She said she was doing this for her. Not because he was another name on a contract, not because you asked her to, but for her. That’s not a professional speaking—that’s someone blinded by emotion.”

  Jameson’s hands splayed on the table, fingers pressing into the wood hard enough to leave marks. “And you let her go like that. Knowing. Fucking. Better.”

  Jaeger’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of what might have been remorse. Or guilt. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  “You love her,” Jaeger said, the words landing and cutting into Jameson.

  “Don’t try to make this about me,” Jameson snarled. “This is about your failure to protect one of your own. This is about you sitting here, plotting how to use her capture to spark your rebellion, while she’s being tortured in Haven Tower.”

  An mercenary near the bar—a woman with tattoos mapping half her bady—spoke up, her voice carrying in the tense silence. “Since when does a smuggler tell the Daggermouths how to handle their business? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  Several others murmured agreement, hands tightening on weapons. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as killsights aligned on Jameson from multiple angles.

  “He’s the Ghost Shade’s been fucking,” someone else said from the shadows. “Thinking with your cock clouds judgment a bit.”

  A low ripple of laughter spread through the room, dark and mocking. Jameson’s shoulders tensed, but he kept his eyes locked on Jaeger.

  “I know her,” he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I know how she thinks, how she plans, what drives her. I know she sleeps with a knife under her pillow and wakes up screaming five nights out of seven because she still sees her parents being executed. I know she drinks to numb the pain but never enough to dull her reflexes. I know she carries the names of every person she’s ever killed tattooed on her body so she never forgets the weight of what she does.”

  The mockery in the room faded as he spoke, replaced by a different kind of tension—the recognition of loss, of the pain this city caused.

  “And I know,” Jameson continued, “that she would tear this city apart brick by brick to save any one of you if you were in her position. So tell me, Jaeger, what the fuck are you doing to save her?”

  Jaeger’s face remained impassive, but the coin began to move between his fingers again, dancing from knuckle to knuckle in hypnotic patterns. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.

  “Like I said, Kael is trained for this situation. She’s strong, smart, and she knows how to handle herself even in the Heart’s interrogation rooms. I trust her to make the right calls until we can extract her safely.”

  “And if those ‘right calls’ include giving you up to save herself?” Jameson challenged. “If Maximus offers her freedom in exchange for the location of you, for the names of your guild, your operational tactics?”

  “She would die first,” Jaeger stated with absolute certainty.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jameson replied, his voice finally cracking. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  For the first time, something like genuine emotion crossed Jaeger’s weathered face—a glimmer of his own fear for Shadera’s safety that vanished almost immediately behind his customary mask of control. He set the coin down on the table softly.

  “I have people working on it,” he said. “My best. I understand where you’re coming from, but like I’ve told you again and again, we need proper intelligence, a solid plan. We don’t even know for certain where in the Heart she is. I won’t sacrifice more of my people on a suicide mission because you cannot be patient.”

  Jameson straightened, determination settling cold and heavy in his chest. “Then I’ll go alone.”

  The words hung in the air, absurd in their audacity. Several assassins laughed outright, the sound sharp and dismissive.

  “You?” Reeve sneered. “Against the entire Veyra guard? Against Haven Tower’s security systems? You wouldn’t make it past the first checkpoint.”

  “I’ve been smuggling people and contraband between the rings for fifteen years,” Jameson replied without looking at him. “I know ways into the Heart that even your scouts haven’t mapped. Routes that bypass the checkpoints entirely.”

  Jameson leaned in closer to Jaeger, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You and your Daggermouths need to get her out,” he said, a threat layered into the words. “If you won’t do it, I’ll go into the Heart and do it myself.”

  Jaeger scoffed. “You’d die trying.”

  “Maybe,” Jameson acknowledged. “But I’d die knowing I didn’t abandon her like you.”

  The conviction in his voice silenced the room. The assembled crowd exchanged glances, reassessing the man they’d dismissed as just another of Shade’s temporary distractions.

  Jaeger leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Jameson’s face. “You really would, wouldn’t you? Walk straight into the Heart on some half-baked rescue mission. Die trying to save her.”

  Jameson’s answer was immediate. “Without hesitation.”

  “Even knowing she might already be broken? That the woman you find might not be the woman you lost?”

  Jameson’s jaw tightened. “She’s stronger than that.”

  “Everyone breaks eventually,” Jaeger said softly, the knowledge of personal experience edging his words. “The Heart has methods that can crack even the strongest minds. If they want information from her badly enough, they’ll get it. And what’s left afterward won’t be Kael anymore.”

  “Then I’ll find whatever’s left of her and bring her home,” Jameson replied without having to think. “And love whoever she’s become.”

  There had never been an easier answer. Jameson meant those words. He would never leave her to die. He would never abandon her. He would give everything, if it meant she had a chance at survival.

  A heavy quiet fell over the bar. Even the most hardened assassins seemed affected by the raw conviction in his voice. Jaeger drummed his fingers against the table once, twice, three times. Then he reached for the bottle, pouring another shot.

  “Three days,” Jaeger finally said. “Give me three days to gather better intelligence, to put a proper plan together. My contacts in the Heart are working on locating her exact position in the tower, the security protocols, the guard rotations. If we’re going to do this, we do it right.”

  Jameson hesitated, weighing the offer against his desperate need to act immediately. “Three days,” he agreed after a long pause. “Not one hour more.”

  Jaeger nodded once, then raised his glass. “To Kael. May she still be Shade when we find her.”

  Jameson squared his shoulders. “She will be.”

  He turned to leave, feeling the weight of Jaeger’s gaze on his back. This time, no one mocked him, only stepped aside so he could pass.

  At the door, Jaeger’s voice called after him. “Vine.”

  Jameson paused, looking back over his shoulder.

  “If you try to go in alone before our three days are up,” Jaeger said, his voice carrying easily through the silent bar, “I’ll have you killed before you reach the Cardinal checkpoint. For her sake, not mine. A failed rescue attempt will only ensure her execution.”

  Their eyes locked across the room, predator recognizing predator.

  “Three days,” Jameson repeated. “After that, I’m going in—with or without your Daggermouths.”

  He pushed through the door without waiting for a response, stepping back into the cold Boundary night. He let a deep, shuttered breath pass over his lips, finally allowing himself to truly feel the fear of what would come next.

  Jameson looked up at the Heart, its spires gleaming against the stormy sky like daggers poised over the city as he melted into the shadows, already plotting his next move.

  Somewhere in that cage, Shadera waited—alive but captive, turned into a symbol against her will, caught in Maximus Serel’s web.

  Three days to plan. Three days to prepare. Three days to imagine what they might be doing to her in that tower of glass and metal.

  Three days to honor his promise to Jaeger. If anything happened to her before then—if any word came that she was being hurt, tortured, prepared for execution—no force in New Found Haven would stop him from burning the Heart to the ground to find her.

  Some promises were made to be broken. And some people were worth dying for.

  CHAPTER TWELVE MY SWEET, SPINELESS HEIR

  THE ELEVATOR DOOR TO Greyson’s apartment floor swept open with a hiss like a final exhalation before his sanctuary became a battlefield. That’s what it would be with a Daggermouth living beside him—a battlefield.

  He pushed his key into the apartment door, twisting until it clicked, then pushed it open. For a moment he hesitated, knowing the second he took a step forward, there would be no turning back.

  Greyson took a deep breath then closed his eyes, not caring about the guards or the Daggermouth at his back, and let himself feel as the last vestiges of control slipped through his fingers.

  This was it, this was his life now.

  His father had won.

  His eyes shot open as two hands slammed against his back, jolting him forward and over the threshold. Pain flared through his body as his head snapped toward Shadera and his fingers found the wall for balance.

  This fucking Daggermouth.

  “Move,” she barked, elbowing past him into the entryway.

  He swallowed back a snarl, his eyes narrowing on her as the Veyra slid in beside him and fanned out into the apartment, scanners already whirring to life in gloved hands. Four of them, armed and efficient, their masks reflecting his apartment’s sterile surfaces. His wound pulsed beneath the bandages, each heartbeat pumping blood that oozed out of the torn flesh, each heartbeat a reminder of the bullet that sealed them into this nightmare.

  She stood three feet to his left, close enough that he could hear her breathing—controlled despite the bruises mapping her face. She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes fixed ahead, her posture deliberately casual, though her shoulders remained rigid. Blood still crusted her hairline, her left eye swelling rapidly—evidence of what the Veyra had done to her in that prison.

  Greyson found himself wondering what other wounds she was hiding underneath her torn clothes, what other prices she’d paid for her failed assassination. None of them would be enough.

  The only fair price was her life.

  “Standard security sweep, sir,” Mikel announced, though Greyson knew this was anything but standard. His father’s paranoia ran deeper than protocol. “We’ll need thirty minutes.”

  Greyson nodded once, the gesture mechanical. His throat had gone dry the moment they’d stepped through the door. Beneath his bedroom closet, wrapped in anti-scan mesh and hidden under a false panel in the floorboards, lay enough contraband medical supplies stamped with the Serel serial number to earn him a public execution.

  One moved to the windows, scanner humming as it swept for recording devices. Another opened kitchen cabinets, running gloved fingers along shelves, checking for hidden compartments. The third guard had already begun dismantling the entertainment system, pulling components apart to inspect the wiring.

  But it was the fourth officer that made Greyson’s fingers twitch against his thigh. The man headed straight for the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  Shadera shifted her weight, arms crossing over her chest. The movement was relaxed, but Greyson caught the way her eyes tracked each guard, cataloging their weapons, their positions, their blind spots. Even beaten and bloodied, she was calculating angles of attack. He wondered if she’d try something stupid. Part of him hoped she would—it might provide enough distraction to keep the guards from being thorough. Or at the very least get her killed.

  Either would work for him.

  “Living area clear,” the first guard reported, moving toward Greyson’s study.

  The wound in his abdomen chose that moment to tear, sending a lance of fire through his core. He kept his expression neutral behind the mask, but his hand pressed against his side.

  The motion drew Shadera’s attention. Her green eyes flicked to his hand, then up to his mask, and for one suspended moment he thought he saw something other than hatred there. Recognition, maybe. He knew from how she fought, she knew pain intimately—lived in it, breathed it, distributed it like currency.

  The thought eddied from his mind as her lips curled into a smug smile and her eyes turned back to the Veyra.

  The officer in his study was pulling books from shelves now, shaking them open, checking for hollowed-out pages. Each thud of a book hitting the floor was an echo of his rapid heartbeat. Greyson’s pulse hammered against his ribs. If they found the supplies, his father would know everything. The careful balance he’d maintained for years would shatter.

  “Clear,” came the call from the study.

  Three guards headed toward the bedroom where their captain was already searching, converging on the hallway. Greyson forced himself to remain by the door, knowing that following would only draw suspicion. His fingers curled into his palm, nails biting crescents into skin. Beside him, Shadera had gone perfectly still, the stillness of a predator sensing a shift in the wind—sensing danger.

  The master bedroom door opened. Greyson heard drawers sliding open, the rustle of clothing being moved as the captain searched. One guard was checking behind artwork on the walls. Another had dropped to his knees, running the scanner along the baseboards. The third—

  The third opened the closet door.

  Time dilated. Greyson listened as the sound of the guard’s boots thudded into the walk-in closet, heard hangers scraping against the rod as clothing was pushed aside. The man would check the walls first, then the ceiling, then—

  “Captain.” The guard’s voice carried from the closet. Greyson’s stomach plummeted. “Walls seem solid, but I should check—”

  “Leave it,” Mikel interrupted. “The President wants this done quickly. If the Daggermouths managed to smuggle any surveillance devices in here, our preliminary scans would have detected it.”

  The boots’ tread grew louder as he exited the closet, the officer moving to check the bathroom instead.

  Greyson allowed himself a microscopic exhale.

  His shirt had gone damp underneath the Veyra uniform jacket, and the tremor in his hand had begun working in overdrive. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back, and tried to mimic some semblance of a man unbothered.

  Twenty minutes stretched like hours. The guards were thorough but not exhaustive, their search designed more to establish presence than to actually find anything. His father’s real message was clear.

  I own this space now. I own you both.

  Finally, Mikel approached. “The sweep is complete, sir.” He paused, mask tilting toward Shadera. “Any attempts to leave will be interpreted as violation of the President’s directive.”

  “Understood,” Greyson managed, his voice steady despite the adrenaline still flooding his system.

  “Not you, sir. Just her. Of course you may come and go as you please, uninterrupted,” Mikel responded as Shadera scoffed.

  That was a lie.

  He could no longer exist uninterrupted, let alone walk the streets of the Heart without being watched from every angle. Greyson nodded in response, not trusting himself to speak. Right now, his words would only lead to violence.

  The Veyra filed out in formation, the door clicking shut behind them. Greyson waited exactly three seconds, then reached up and pulled the obsidian mask from his face. The cool air hit his skin like absolution. He placed the mask on its stand by the door then pulled open the entry table drawer.

  The scanner was where he’d left it, small and inconspicuous. His father would have had devices planted—he was too paranoid not to. He pulled it out, then pulled out the handgun he always kept pushed to the back in case of emergencies and tucked it into the back of his waistband. He would sleep with it now if he had to. He wasn’t going to take any chances with an assassin was living under his roof.

  Greyson powered on the device, the display showing a subtle electromagnetic field overlay of the room. He began at the door, moving in slow, methodical sweeps.

  Behind him, Shadera remained where she’d stood during the entire search, watching him with those calculating eyes. He could feel her gaze on the back of his neck as he worked, could sense her processing this new information about him—that he didn’t trust his own father, that he had secrets worth protecting, that he was perhaps more than just the Heart’s obedient Executioner.