A soft sound pulled him back—footsteps approaching, giving him plenty of warning.

  Greyson forced himself to look at her, to acknowledge what he’d done. He expected to find contempt or satisfaction in her eyes—some vindication at seeing her captor brought low. Instead, she stood a few paces away, holding a first aid kit in her hands, her posture suggesting caution but not fear.

  “Are you done?” she asked, her voice steady.

  Greyson nodded.

  She approached slowly, as if he were a wounded animal that might still be dangerous.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said, the words emerging rough and raw. “I would never—” He stopped, killing the lie before it could form. He didn’t have to lie to her, didn’t have to pretend this was something it wasn’t. They would both hurt each other if they had to, but at least, if nothing else, they were honest about that.

  A corner of her lips tilted upward and she knelt in front of him, laying the kit on the floor beside her.

  “I know.

  She said it so matter-of-fact, as if she understood him on some fundamental level that others missed. As if the line between his controlled public persona and this private destruction made perfect sense to her.

  “I’m going to clean that wound,” she said, nodding toward his shoulder. “And before you tell me not to bother, remember that if you bleed out, I’m the one who’ll be blamed.” She retrieved antiseptic and bandages without looking up at him. “Can you move your arm well enough to pull it from the sleeve?”

  Greyson nodded, complying and wincing as he undid the buttons and pulled his left arm free. The bullet had passed through the meat of his shoulder, missing bone and major arteries—a warning shot, clean and not meant to kill. His father was too precise a marksman to miss at that range if he’d wanted Greyson dead.

  Shadera worked in silence, cleaning the wound with clinical detachment. Her fingers were gentle despite the efficiency of her movements, a contradiction that seemed to define her more and more with each passing day.

  “I’m sorry,” Greyson said after several minutes of quiet. “That you had to see that. My father. What he really is.”

  Her eyes met his, green and steady and unafraid.

  “I’ve known what he is for a long time,” she said quietly, then paused. Her mouth quirked upward. “Besides, what you really should be apologizing for, little heir, is stabbing me with that fucking fork. Hurt worse than an actual blade.”

  A startled laugh escaped him, cut short by the pain it caused. “Fair enough.”

  They fell silent again as she worked, and something in the air between them, the energy, shifted.

  Her hands stilled on his skin, lingering. He swore he imagined it when her thumb traced a soft circle over a scar and his breath hitched.

  “I didn’t know,” she finally whispered, so softly he almost missed it.

  Greyson looked up, finding her eyes fixed on his face, her expression stripped of its usual defenses. The emotion they held, the pain that seemed to reflect him, made his heartbeat stutter.

  “Know what?” His voice was so foreign, so soft, as it left his lips. He fixated on her eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes.

  She swallowed.

  “What it was like. What you…” Her fingers slid down his arm, never leaving his skin. Greyson’s heart rate began to accelerate. “I knew he was a monster. But I didn’t know… I never imagined what it was like for you. Living with him.”

  He couldn’t have anticipated the severity of the impact those words would hit him with, unexpected and devastating in their simple honesty. He looked away, unable to bear the weight of her gaze.

  “No one does,” he said after a moment of silence, forcing his eyes back to her face.

  Her hand fell away from his skin, slipping into her lap, and the sudden absence of her touch, her warmth, made his throat constrict.

  Greyson forced himself not to reach for her.

  “He killed my parents,” Shadera said, her voice almost a whisper. “Twenty years ago, I watched him kill my parents on that platform because they were from different rings. Because they chose love over law.”

  She lifted her eyes back to his, and the pain he saw raging there could have brought him to his knees.

  “I-I’m sorry.” She forced the words out.

  “For what?” Greyson asked, genuinely confused.

  She cleared her throat, bringing her hands back to his shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, not from pain—but comfort.

  “For assuming you were just like him.” She secured a bandage over the entrance wound. “For thinking that because you’re his son, the Executioner, this was a life you chose. That you wanted to kill innocents—that you enjoyed it.”

  The statement from her lips was a blade sliding between his ribs, finding the heart of a truth he rarely acknowledged even to himself.

  He hadn’t chosen any of this.

  “That doesn’t excuse what I’ve done,” he said, the words thick in his throat. “The choices I’ve made, the people I’ve—” He cut himself off, unable to finish.

  “No,” she agreed, and there was no absolution in her voice, no forgiveness. “It doesn’t. But it explains more than I understood before.”

  Her eyes moved over his face, studying him openly now. He wondered what version of him she saw at that moment—the Executioner, the heir, the broken man? All of them at once? All equally true, equally false.

  “Earlier,” she started, changing the subject, “you said something about my mask bearing your mark. What did you mean?”

  The question was a lifeline, a shift away from the truth of what he’d done, and he was grateful for it. He exhaled slowly, considering his answer.

  “All Executioners have a mark,” he explained. “A symbol that identifies them, that becomes associated with their… work, in the Veyra ranks. Mine is a skull.”

  “A tattoo?” she asked, her eyes scanning what she could see of his chest, noting the scars but no visible mark.

  “Yes.” He hesitated, then made a decision.

  If she was going to understand—truly understand the man they were up against—she needed to see. All of it.

  Slowly, he pulled his shirt fully from his body, letting it fall to the floor as he turned away from her, presenting his back. Her sharp intake of breath told him she saw it—the skull tattooed across his entire back, identical to the one on her mask. Black ink embedded in skin that was a roadmap of scars and burns and lash marks. Some surgical, most jagged and brutal. Evidence of years of “discipline” at his father’s hands.

  “This is my mark,” he said quietly, still facing away from her. “My fucked up legacy.”

  Her fingers brushed his skin, so light he might have imagined it if not for the warmth that followed the path of her touch as she traced one of the scars that crossed the skull.

  “And these?” she asked, her voice reverent. “Are they your legacy too?”

  Greyson closed his eyes, fighting the unexpected surge of emotion her touch evoked. “No. They’re my education.”

  She reached for a pack of gauze and tape without speaking, quickly cleaning the exit wound before packing it and sealing it off. Her fingers took one last dance across his flesh, feeling the ridges of his pain before her hand stilled against his back, a point of warmth in the cold room. Then it withdrew, leaving him feeling strangely bereft.

  “Greyson,” she said, and the sound of his name in her voice, without title or mockery or disdain, made something ache inside him. “Look at me.”

  He turned, meeting her eyes. Shadera stared at him for a long moment, emotions raging in her gaze as she lifted her hands then hesitated. It only took a breath for her to make whatever decision she was deciding on as her hands came up to cup the sides of his face.

  His breath caught in his lungs.

  He’d never been touched like this. The mask prevented it. Even before he was required to wear one as a child, no hands had graced his bare cheeks.

  Her thumbs swept over the surface in tandem, stilling on both sides of his nose. He didn’t breathe, didn’t blink for fear that she would pull away, that she would take this small intimacy away from him.

  Shadera searched his face before her lips parted. “For this moment, I’m going to put aside my hate for you. I’m going to forget that you’re my enemy and speak to you survivor to survivor.”

  Greyson swallowed then nodded, eyes never leaving hers.

  Her hands flexed against his skin. “You deserved—deserve a better father. Love is not supposed to be cruel, and what he’s done to you… it’s not your fault. You’re a better man than him, Greyson. Now is the time to be that man.” She paused as his pulse pounded in his ears, ringing as if he were hearing for the first time. “Death doesn’t have to be your legacy.”

  They stayed there, suspended in silence. Greyson didn’t know how long it had been when she removed her hands, when she stood in front of him and offered her hand.

  “You need to sleep,” she said, her voice still gentle. “You’ve lost blood. You need rest.”

  Greyson nodded. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t trust any of the words that were begging to be set free.

  His fingers slid into hers, rising to his feet as he scanned the ruin around them. Tomorrow, he’d have to tell her the truth about the Vow, the core of the Heart. But tonight, he needed sleep. He needed distance. He needed clarity.

  Shadera strode away from him without a word toward her room and as he watched her go, as those auburn curls swayed with every step she took, he realized the irony of it all.

  The woman sent to kill him, was the only woman who had ever made him feel safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY I PROMISE

  THE DOOR CLICKED SHUT behind Chapman as Callum turned to face Lira. She stood in his entryway with the stillness of prey that had learned any movement might draw the predator’s attention, and rage ignited in his chest, white hot and blinding.

  His hands moved before his mind caught up, reaching for her face, needing to catalog the damage. She flinched—barely, but he saw it, felt it like a blade between his ribs. Callum forced his hands to slow, to be gentle, telegraphing his movements as his fingers ghosted over the edges of her mask.

  “Li.” Her name came out strangled, caught between fury and heartbreak that threatened to crack him open if he let it.

  The split ran from her left eye to the corner of her mouth, the metal edges sharp enough to have carved into her skin. Blood had dried in rusty trails down her neck, disappearing into the collar of her dress. But it was the bruising that made his vision blur red at the edges—purple-black fingerprints wrapped around her throat already forming like a necklace of violence.

  “Who?” The word scraped out of him, though he already knew. Already knew and was calculating how many pieces he could carve Maximus Serel into before death became a mercy.

  “My father.” Lira’s voice emerged hollow, drained of its usual steady elegance. “At dinner. Family dinner.”

  Callum’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. How many times had he watched Maximus destroy his children under the guise of family obligation? How many times had he stood by, powerless, bound by the same system that now had its hands around Lira’s throat?

  “Grey tried to stop him,” she continued, and something in her tone made Callum go still. “He shot him.”

  The rage crystallized into something colder, more dangerous. “Is he—”

  “Alive. A shoulder wound. Shadera was with him when I left.” Lira swayed slightly, exhaustion bleeding through her rigid posture.

  Callum moved, his arm sliding around her waist to steady her. She leaned into him for just a moment, her weight slight against his side, before straightening again. Always maintaining that distance, that careful boundary she’d drawn between them.

  She pushed out of his arms and made her way through the entryway, navigating his house like she belonged there.

  She did, Callum thought to himself. Belong there.

  “You need to rest,” he said as she paused to steady herself against the living room wall.

  She only nodded in agreement as he began guiding her deeper into his apartment. The space was deliberately sparse—all clean lines and muted colors, nothing that could be used as leverage against him. But he’d kept the guest room furnished, maintained it religiously, though no one ever used it. As if he’d been waiting for this moment, for her to need sanctuary.

  His hand found the small of her back as they walked, feeling the tension vibrating through her spine. Every instinct screamed at him to take her to his room, to keep her close where he could stand guard, where he could hold her.

  “You can stay in the guest room for as long as you need,” he said instead, pushing open the door to reveal the space he’d prepared. Neutral grays and soft blues—her favorite colors.

  Lira paused in the doorway, and he watched her shoulders drop fractionally.

  “I’ll run you a bath, and make you tea. You need something warm,” Callum said softly as she moved into the room.

  Lira nodded, taking in the space as he forced himself to focus on his tasks. Turning on the bath, adjusting the temperature, laying out towels. Each movement kept his hands busy, kept them from reaching for her, from pulling her against him and promising things he had no right to promise.

  “There are clothes in the wardrobe,” he said, not looking at her. “They should fit.”

  He’d bought them years ago, telling himself it was just prudence, just preparation, not hope for a future with her. The lie tasted bitter now.

  “Callum.” Her voice stopped him at the door.

  He turned back, finding her standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights below. Even hurt, even in pain, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  The most beautiful thing he’d ever lost.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You don’t need to thank me, Li. Not ever.”

  Something unspoken passed between them, that old thread tugging him toward her. He turned away abruptly before he could act on it, and fled.

  There was no other word for the way he left the room, driven out by the weight of everything he couldn’t say. The hallway felt longer than usual, the walls closer. His apartment—his sanctuary, his refuge—had become haunted by his mistakes the moment she’d entered it.

  Callum allowed his posture to finally break out of her sight, his shoulders slumping as he leaned against the wall. The rage ricocheting inside his veins threatened to erupt, to send him into the night seeking vengeance against a man who thought himself too powerful to touch.

  He dragged a hand down his mask, before pushing from the wall and retrieving his tablet from his pocket. He typed in a code and the screen flared to life with security protocols. Three layers of encryption, two proxy servers, and a voice scrambler that would make him sound like static to anyone trying to trace the call.

  The line connected after two rings.

  “We need to meet,” Callum said without preamble.

  “Tomorrow?” The voice on the other end was careful, recognizing the deviation from their usual protocol.

  “Tonight. No—” Callum caught himself, glancing back at the guest room door. “Tomorrow night. Things have escalated.”

  “I want an extraction—”

  “Absolutely fucking not.” The words came out harder than intended, sharp enough to cut. “We stick to the original plan. There is no way to extract safely. Once the Vow ceremony is completed, we can talk new arrangements.”

  “The plan didn’t account for—”

  “The plan accounts for variables,” Callum interrupted. “This is a variable. We adapt, we don’t abandon.”

  “Thane—”

  “Listen to me,” he hissed, checking the hallway to ensure he remained alone. “Maximus has doubled security at every checkpoint. The Heart is crawling with his personal guard. Moving now would get them all killed.”

  Quiet stretched across the connection, weighted with silent arguments. Finally, “She needs to know we’re trying.”

  “I don’t give a damn about her if it fucks with my plan.” Callum sucked in a long breath, his jaw flexing before he continued. “Fine. I will make sure she is at the meet tomorrow. But you can send one person. One. They will be able to talk to her. But if they try to get her out, I will kill them. Nothing gets in the way of this plan.”

  A pause.

  “Two.”

  Callum’s free hand clenched into a fist. “One. Any more risks exposure if I’m bringing her.”

  Another pause. “Okay. Tomorrow night. The usual place?”

  “No. I’ll send coordinates an hour before. And whoever you send better understand the stakes.”

  “They will.”

  Callum ended the call, immediately wiping the tablet’s memory. The device would show nothing more than a normal evening’s browsing history, carefully cultivated to maintain his cover.

  He slipped the device back into his pocket and made his way to the kitchen, as his mind began to race with contingencies, with the delicate dance of betrayals and allegiances that had become his life.

  The kettle met the stove with more force than necessary, the metal connecting with a sharp clang that echoed through the quiet space. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not from fear—he’d long ago trained that response out of his body—but from rage so concentrated it seemed to have its own gravity, pulling at his muscles, his bones, his blood.

  Maximus was cracking, pressure slowly breaking down the dictator. That meant their window was closing. Whatever he was planning, whatever was causing him to snap, was nearing. They had to strike first.

  While the water heated, he measured loose tea leaves into a porcelain pot—chamomile and lavender, something to help her sleep. The kettle began to whistle, steam erupting from its spout in an angry plume. Callum removed it from the heat, pouring the boiling water over the leaves and watching as they unfurled, releasing their essence. As the tea steeped, he pulled out his tablet again, keying in a different set of security protocols.