“I have no freedom,” Lira spat up at him, the words strangled.

  The sound of Maximus’s palm connecting with Lira’s face echoed through the dining room. Her head snapped to the side, the impact hard enough that Greyson heard the distinct crack of her mask against his father’s ring.

  Something in Greyson broke. Some final tether of restraint, some last vestige of fear or respect or whatever the fuck had kept him in check all these years. He launched himself around the table, blind with rage, deaf to his mother’s sharp scream as she pleaded with him to stop.

  “Greyson, don’t!” Shadera yelled as she tried to catch his arm.

  But it was too late. It was already in motion.

  He was halfway to his father when Maximus released Lira, letting her crumple to the floor as he drew the gun from inside his jacket. The movement was smooth, practiced—the action of a man who had anticipated this moment, who’d been waiting for it.

  “One more step,” Maximus said calmly, “and I’ll add another scar to your collection.”

  Greyson didn’t stop.

  The shot rang out, the force of it spinning him half around as the bullet tore through the flesh of his shoulder. He caught himself against the edge of the table, blood already soaking through his jacket, dripping onto the pristine tablecloth. Pain bloomed through his veins but he barely registered it, the familiar sensation just one more data point in a lifetime of his father’s lessons.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Greyson asked, his eyes dragging up to meet his father’s. “After everything else, you think a bullet scares me?”

  “Predictable,” Maximus said, his voice coldly analytical. “Always so quick to defend the lesser sex, to defend lesser people. It’s why you’ll never be fit to lead.”

  Greyson straightened, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep and broken inside him. It spilled out, harsh and genuine as he pressed his hand against the wound in his shoulder. “Is that what you think I care about? Fitness to lead? To be like you?”

  He took a step forward in the silent room, then another, ignoring the gun still pointed at his chest.

  “Go ahead,” he said, gesturing at the weapon. “Finish what you started. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  Maximus’s eyes shifted behind his mask, a hint of uncertainty there as he reassessed his son. Maximus adjusted his aim, the barrel now pointing directly at Greyson’s heart. “You think I won’t?”

  “I know you will,” Greyson replied, still advancing. “Eventually. It’s what you do—eliminate problems. Destroy anything that doesn’t conform to your vision. So do it. End the disappointment.”

  Maximus’s finger tightened on the trigger, hesitating. For a moment, Greyson thought it might truly be the end. A strange calm washed over him at the prospect—not peace, exactly, but acceptance. Freedom, of a sort.

  The same sensation he had felt when Shadera had pointed her gun at him. Except this time, it was laced with fear. Fear of leaving his family with this man, fear of leaving her with this man.

  Then, in the next breath, Maximus pivoted, squatting down to the floor next to Elara, the gun now aimed at her head. “Perhaps I’ll start with your mother instead. Since you seem to value others’ lives above your own.”

  The threat hung in the air, clear and unmistakable. Greyson went still, the calm draining from him as suddenly as it had appeared, replaced by cold, familiar panic. Not for himself but for the collateral damage his father never hesitated to inflict.

  “That’s better,” Maximus said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “You see, son? Some lessons do stick, after all.”

  For a heartbeat, the tableau held—Maximus with his gun against Elara’s temple, Lira still on the floor, Shadera standing now, waiting for permission to attack. Greyson could feel blood running down his arm, warm and steady, pooling at his fingertips.

  “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice suppressing fury.

  He moved toward Lira, positioning himself between her and their father. Shadera appeared at his side, her body tense, ready for action. He could feel the coiled violence in her, the mercenary calculating odds, measuring distances.

  “You will do as I—” Maximus began.

  “No,” Greyson cut him off, the single syllable carrying the weight of years of silent defiance. “Not tonight.”

  He helped Lira to her feet, steadying her when she swayed. Her mask had cracked along one side, a thin line running from eye to cheek like a tear frozen in place. He kept his body between her and Maximus as he guided her toward Shadera.

  In this moment, he realized that he trusted her. Not with his life, but with his sister’s. He knew somehow that she’d seen the violence of men, and she would protect Lira just as he would.

  “If you walk out that door,” Maximus said, his voice like ice, “there will be consequences.”

  Greyson turned back to look at him, at the man who had shaped his life through fear and pain, who had molded him into a weapon.

  “There always are,” he replied. “You will get your Vow. You will destroy my life and I can swallow that. But I will not hesitate to kill you if you ever lay a hand on Lira again.” He paused, knowing the threat would cost him. But instead of leaving it, instead of walking out the door with the damage that’d already been done, he smiled at his father.

  “A Serel doesn’t hesitate, right, Dad?”

  He turned then, ushering Shadera and Lira toward the exit, his hand at Lira’s back as Shadera supported her.

  “This isn’t over, Greyson,” his father called after them. “It’s barely begun.”

  Greyson didn’t look back, didn’t slow his pace as they left the dining room, the evidence of his father’s violence marked in blood on his shirt and bruises already forming on Lira’s throat. Behind them, he heard the sound of glass shattering against a wall, his father’s rage finding its target after they were beyond his reach.

  He couldn’t save his mother, he knew that. Knew that she would never betray his father. That Maximus would have put a bullet in her head before she took a step out of that room. His soul cracked at the thought, at the knowledge that she would be the one to receive his fury with no way out.

  The truth of Maximus’s final words settled in Greyson’s gut like lead.

  ‘This isn’t over.’

  Whatever game his father was playing, whatever trap he was setting—this dinner had been just one move on a board much larger than Greyson could see.

  They were all in danger.

  He jabbed the button for his floor with more force than necessary, leaving a smear of crimson on the polished metal. The elevator doors slid closed, sealing them in silence broken only by Lira’s short, panicked breaths that Greyson recognized all too well—the aftermath of their father’s attention.

  “Li.” He kept his voice steady, gentle in a way he reserved only for her. “Focus on my voice.”

  Her eyes were wide behind her mask, pupils dilated. Her hand went to her throat where Maximus’s fingers had been.

  “I can’t—” she gasped, the words fragmenting.

  Lira’s breathing quickened, each inhale shorter than the last, her body trembling visibly now. Panic attack. She’d had them since childhood, since the first time their father had shown his true nature in front of her.

  Greyson moved toward her, but Shadera was faster, stepping in front of his sister. She placed her hands on Lira’s shoulders, her movements careful but decisive.

  “Look at me,” she said, her voice gentler than Greyson had ever heard it. “Through the mask. Find my eyes.”

  Lira’s head jerked up, her chest heaving with the effort to draw breath.

  “Good,” Shadera continued, reaching up to adjust Lira’s mask, straightening it softly. “Now breathe with me. In through your nose.” She demonstrated, her own chest rising with a deep inhale. “Out through your mouth.”

  To Greyson’s amazement, Lira tried to follow, her breath still hitching but gradually slowing as she matched Shadera’s rhythm. Shadera continued the pattern, her attention fully focused on Lira, as if they were the only two people in the elevator.

  “That’s it,” Shadera encouraged. “Again. In… and out.”

  Greyson pulled his tablet from his jacket, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain lancing through his shoulder. He keyed in a secure code, bypassing the usual communication channels to connect directly to Chapman.

  “Sir?” Chapman’s voice came through immediately, alert and concerned.

  “We have a situation,” Greyson said, keeping his voice low. “Get to my floor. Immediately.”

  He ended the call without waiting for a response, knowing Chapman would be there. The man had never failed him, not once in ten years of service.

  Greyson turned back to the women, watching Shadera care for his sister as something shifted in his chest. The scene felt surreal, disconnected from the truth he thought he understood about Daggermouths.

  They were supposed to be emotionless killers.

  They weren’t supposed to care for other people, weren’t supposed to feel empathy, show kindness.

  Pain pulsed from his shoulder, but he pushed it aside, compartmentalizing it as he’d been taught. Physical pain was the least of what his father had inflicted tonight. The bullet wound would heal. The sight of his father’s hand around Lira’s throat, of the gun aimed at his mother’s head—those wounds would fester like all the others, buried but never forgotten.

  The elevator slowed, then stopped as rain began to drum against the glass box. Shadera’s gaze moved to the city beyond the window, cataloging, assessing, planning—Greyson could almost see the calculations behind her eyes.

  The doors slid open to reveal Chapman standing at the threshold between doors, back straight, expression neutral despite the blood on Greyson’s suit, despite Lira’s obvious distress.

  Shadera helped Lira to her feet as Chapman used his own key to unlock the door, stepping inside first to verify it was secure. He nodded once to Greyson before he ushered them inside.

  “I need you to take Lira to Callum,” Greyson said to Chapman without preamble. “Tell him she doesn’t leave his side until I contact him. Not for any reason. Not for work, not for Father, not for anything. And use the service tunnels, not the main roads.”

  Chapman nodded, already moving to retrieve a coat for her from the closet by the door.

  “Grey—” Lira began, her voice still unsteady.

  “Please.” He heard the desperation in his voice. “You’re not safe at home right now. Callum can protect you until we figure out our next move.”

  “Then come with me,” she pressed. “If he can protect me then he can protect all of us.”

  Greyson shook his head. “No one is safe around Shadera and me right now.” He placed his hand on her uninjured cheek, a rare gesture of physical affection. “I need to know you’re safe, Li. Please.”

  “At least let me help you first,” she conceded, leaning into his palm as her eyes flicked to his shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” he lied, ignoring the hot blood spreading down his side beneath his jacket. “This isn’t the first time. I doubt it will be the last.”

  Something about those words seemed to break her completely. She surged forward, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace that sent pain screaming through his shoulder. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he gritted his teeth and wrapped his arms tightly around her, cradling his little sister against his chest as her tears soaked through his shirt.

  “I hate him,” she whispered against his chest. “I hate what he’s done to us. I want him to die.”

  “I know.” He brushed a hand down the back of her head. “I know, Li. Go with Chapman. Stay with Callum. I’ll fix this.”

  Another lie, perhaps. But one she needed to hear.

  She pulled back, fingers brushing his injured shoulder with butterfly lightness. “Promise me you’ll take care of this,” she said, gesturing to the wound.

  “I promise.”

  Lira turned to Shadera then, the movement hesitant, uncertain. “Thank you,” she said simply. “For in the elevator.”

  Shadera inclined her head. “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing,” Lira insisted. Then, more quietly, “Take care of him. At least for tonight, please keep him safe.”

  Before Shadera could respond, Lira turned away, moving toward Chapman who waited in the entryway, his patience infinite, his discretion absolute. Greyson followed her toward the door, opening it and pressing the button to call the elevator, then pulled Chapman back a step.

  “No one touches her,” Greyson said, his voice low enough that only Chapman could hear. He pulled his gun out of its holster and slipped it to him. “If anyone tries, even Veyra, you have my authorization to use lethal force.”

  Chapman’s eyes reflected his understanding. “Yes, sir. With my life.”

  The doors to the elevator opened and in the next breath they were gone, leaving Greyson alone with Shadera in the suddenly too quiet apartment. The absence of others made the space feel larger, emptier, the silence pressing in and suffocating him.

  Greyson stood motionless, his control maintained by the thinnest of threads. Now that Lira was gone, now that his focus on her safety no longer anchored him, he could feel something unraveling inside him—a coil of pain and despair that had been wound tight for decades.

  Control. Everything in his life had been about control—maintaining it, projecting it, never letting it slip no matter what his father did, no matter what horrors he witnessed on the execution platform, no matter how much of himself he had to carve away to maintain the facade.

  The sound of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears, the wound in his shoulder a distant concern compared to the rage building inside him.

  It started in his fingertips, a tremor that traveled up his arms, spreading through his chest until his entire body vibrated with it. That control he maintained—always, always maintained—began to crack, fault lines spreading into gaping voids.

  “You should sit,” Shadera said, breaking the silence. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

  Her voice penetrated the fog beginning to cloud his thoughts, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond. The sound of his father’s hand striking Lira’s face echoed in his ears. The image of the gun pressed to his mother’s temple burned behind his eyes. The feeling of powerlessness—familiar, suffocating—tightened around his throat.

  “Greyson?” Shadera moved closer, her voice sharper now, more insistent.

  For the first time in his life, Greyson found himself contemplating not just escaping from his father’s control, but something far more permanent. Something that would end his reign once and for all.

  Something snapped.

  His fist connected with the wall before he consciously decided to move as a sound more animal than human shredded his lungs. Plaster cracked and gave way, pain shooting up his arm to mingle with the fire in his shoulder. The physical sensation was cleansing, clarifying—a point of focus in the storm.

  He tore the mask from his face, hurling it into the mirror above the entryway table. Shards exploded outward like crystalline shrapnel. His hands reached for anything, scrabbled for anything he could destroy. The island stools were next. He picked them up one by one, slamming them against the counter, against the walls, the refrigerator until they were nothing more than twisted metal.

  He dragged his suit jacket off his body as his heel connected with the coffee table. It flew across the room, flipping and splintering, as it connected with the entertainment center and shattered the thin glass television screen. The sound was like ice breaking on a frozen lake.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Nowhere near enough to contain the fury boiling through his veins.

  “Fuck!” The word tore from him as his fist connected with the marble island, splitting his knuckles.

  He tore through the apartment like a force of nature, upending furniture, shattering anything his eyes landed on. Each act of destruction felt like oxygen after too long underwater, like breaking the surface when he’d been drowning his entire life.

  He swept everything from the counters with a single arc of his arm, dishes and glassware shattering on the floor. A liquor bottle flying toward the window.

  Thirty-three years of obedience. Thirty-three years of swallowing his hatred, of playing the dutiful son, the perfect heir. Thirty-three years of watching his father destroy everything. And for what? For the privilege of living in a cage, of killing on command, of pretending the Heart’s poison hadn’t infected him to the core?

  He was dimly aware of Shadera standing in the entryway, watching his rampage with calm eyes. Her presence registered like a distant signal through the static of his rage, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t regain control. Not yet.

  Greyson went for the couch next, flipping the large sectional over as another scream ripped from deep inside of him. The exertion sent a spike of agony through his injured shoulder, and Greyson stumbled, his vision blurring at the edges. He caught himself against the window, leaving a bloody handprint on the glass.

  His legs gave out, and he slid down the glass to the floor, chest heaving, the rage finally beginning to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the pain no longer possible to ignore now that the adrenaline was fading.

  The apartment lay in ruins around him, a battlefield of broken possessions, a landscape of destruction that matched the devastation inside him. His ragged breathing sounded obscenely loud in the sudden quiet. Shame crept in at the seams of his awareness—shame at his loss of control, at the animal violence of his outburst, at the knowledge that Shadera had just witnessed him break.

  Another weakness revealed, another vulnerability exposed.

  He leaned his head back against the glass, closing his eyes as he sucked in a ragged breath. Time seemed to stretch and contract around him, reality bleeding at the edges. He was pulling away from his body. Inch by inch. Like a tide receding from shore.