Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails raking over his skin as he set a rhythm that had her panting beneath him. Each thrust built the pressure in his spine, the coiling heat low in his belly. But he held back, determined to bring her pleasure first, to watch her come apart in his arms.

  He shifted his weight, changing the angle of his thrusts, and was rewarded with Lira’s sharp gasp. Her eyes widened, pupils blown with pleasure as he hit that perfect spot inside her.

  “There,” she breathed, her voice catching. “Right there, don’t stop.”

  Callum increased his pace, driving into her with controlled power, his muscles burning with the effort of holding back his own release. He slipped a hand between their bodies, finding her clit with practiced fingers, circling in time with his thrusts.

  “More,” she gasped, her thighs tightening against him. “Please.”

  “Come for me again,” he urged, his voice a low growl against her ear. “One more time, love. Let me feel you.”

  He rolled them, settling her on top of him without breaking their connection. The new position let him see all of her—the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the way her hair fell around her shoulders like dark waters. She braced her hands on his chest, rising and falling at her own pace, taking her pleasure from him in a way that made his blood sing.

  “You’re a goddess,” he breathed, hands gripping her hips to help guide her movements. “My goddess.”

  The possessiveness in his voice should have frightened him, but it felt right. She was his now, as he was hers.

  He had always been hers.

  Callum watched, entranced as Lira rode him, her body moving in a rhythm that seemed to pulse through his entire being. She looked down at him, their eyes locking, and there was such an intensity in her gaze that he felt as though she was seeing right into his soul.

  Her fingers dug into his chest as her movements grew faster, more urgent. The heat of her surrounded him, gripped him, dragging him closer to the point of no return with each thrust.

  Callum felt his control fracturing as Lira moved above him, her pace relentless, drawing him toward an edge he’d been fighting to avoid. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh as he tried to slow her movements, to make this last.

  “Not yet,” he groaned, but she only smiled down at him—a wicked, knowing expression that sent heat racing through his veins.

  “Yes,” she breathed, rolling her hips in a way that made his vision blur. “It’s your turn to come undone for me, Callie.”

  The words destroyed what remained of his restraint. He surged upward, capturing her mouth in a desperate kiss as his hips thrust up to meet hers. She gasped against his mouth, the sound vibrating through him as her inner walls began to flutter around his cock.

  “That’s it,” he growled against her throat, feeling her body tensing. “Come with me, Lira. Now.”

  Her fifth orgasm hit with devastating force. She cried out his name, her body clenching around him in waves that pulled his own release from him with violent intensity. The feeling of her coming undone around him prolonged his pleasure until he thought he might black out from the sheer intensity of it. He groaned into her shoulder, his hips jerking upward as he spilled inside her, the pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. Every muscle in his body went taut, then released in a rush that left him trembling beneath her.

  His vision whited out as ecstasy scorched through his blood, burning away every thought, every sensation that wasn’t her. Wasn’t this.

  They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and racing hearts. Callum’s arms wrapped around her, holding her against his chest as though she might disappear if he loosened his grip. Her breath came in soft pants against his neck, each exhale sending shivers across his skin.

  “Five,” she murmured after a moment, a note of satisfaction in her voice that made him chuckle.

  “As promised.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her. “Though I’m nowhere near done with you.”

  She lifted her head to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”

  “Mm.” His hands traced lazy patterns on her back, mapping the curve of her spine. “We have years to make up for.”

  The reminder of lost time sobered them both slightly. Lira’s expression grew serious as she studied his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

  “No more secrets,” she said softly. “No more protecting each other from the truth.”

  “No more secrets,” he agreed, catching her hand and pressing his lips to her palm.

  The tablet on his nightstand buzzed, shattering the moment. Callum’s body tensed—that particular alert meant urgent news from his network. He reached for it reluctantly, aware of Lira watching him with curious eyes.

  The message made his blood run cold.

  “What is it?” Lira asked, pushing herself up on one elbow.

  He turned the screen toward her, watching her face pale as she read the encrypted message.

  Executioner and Daggermouth taken into custody. President’s orders. Location unknown. Vow ceremony preparations continue as scheduled.

  “No.” The word escaped Lira in a whisper. “We have to find them.”

  Callum was already moving, pulling on his pants and dragging a shirt over his head. His mind raced through possibilities, contingencies, the network of informants he could activate. But finding prisoners the President wanted hidden would be nearly impossible, even with his resources. He reached for the gun he kept in the bedside drawer, checking the magazine then tucking it into his waistband.

  “Stay here,” he said, his voice shifting into the cold command of someone preparing for war.

  “Like hell,” she replied, sliding from the bed and reaching for her clothes. “I’m not hiding out in your bedroom.”

  He wanted to argue, to insist she stay safely away from whatever violence came from this news. But the determined set of her jaw told him it would be useless. This was the new reality between them—no more protection, no more sheltering.

  Callum strapped a second gun to his ankle and handed Lira a smaller pistol he kept for emergencies. Marcus’s face flashed behind his eyes as she took it from him and checked the safety and grip.

  “You sure you know how to use that?” he asked.

  She lifted a brow in his direction. “Did I not prove that this morning? Just give me a thigh holster, I need somewhere to hide this under my dress.”

  He didn’t try to hide the smile that lifted the corners of his lips. Maybe she was more suited for his world after all. He pulled a holster out of the bottom drawer of the nightstand and handed it to her before turning to the door and heading for his surveillance equipment.

  He paused at the threshold, looking back at her—his heart, his soul, everything that mattered. Callum knew the moment he took a step out of that room, everything would change.

  The living room was now bathed in shadows, the security screens casting a blue glow over the furniture. Callum moved silently across the polished floor, every sense heightened. The chime sounded again from the tablet in his hand.

  Meeting tonight. Wolf’s Head. 10pm.

  He tilted his head at the message, at the timing of it. A rebel meeting the same night Greyson and Shadera were detained.

  Someone else is feeding the Boundary information.

  He shoved the device back into his pocket, setting his gun on his desk as he scoured the security footage of Haven Tower at double speed, looking for anything. Any sign he had missed, any clue that could tell him where Maximus had taken them.

  “What do we do now?” Lira asked from the hallway’s opening, and Callum’s eyes shot up to see her not in her dress, but in the clothes he had kept for her here in silent prayer that she would someday wear them.

  His heart convulsed at the sight. At the dream that had miraculously come true at the worst possible timing. He stared at her for a long second, the way the black pants hugged her curves, how her brown hair flowed over her shoulders spilling down the front of the grey knit sweater. The gun strapped snugly to the side of her thigh.

  Callum cleared his throat, standing from his desk.

  “We’re going to Wolf’s Head.”

  Lira froze, looking at him with surprise. “The Daggermouth bar? They’ll kill me on sight.”

  “Not if you’re with me.” He holstered his gun, then reached for a blade sitting on the desk’s surface and pushed it in beside his other weapons. “If Maximus thinks he can use the people we care about as pawns, he’s about to learn exactly what I’m capable of.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTION

  JAMESON SLIPPED THROUGH THE narrow space between two derelict buildings, the shadows wrapping around him as they always did. A weight settled in his chest as he moved—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something darker that had been growing since he’d learned about the Vow.

  The Boundary smelled of desperation tonight—the usual stench of waste and industrial runoff tainted with fear, with rage. He could feel it in the air, pressing against his skin, seeping through the cracks in the walls around him.

  His fingers tightened around the gun holstered beneath his jacket, itching for release. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours since he’d stood in that blue lit room, watching Shadera choose sacrifice over escape. He had been angry at her for that, but now, after pacing and planning and destroying things in the privacy of his hideout, that anger had shifted into respect.

  Something moved in the corner of his vision—a flash of reflected light from the end of the alley. Jameson froze, pressing himself against the wall as the mechanical hum of a vehicle grew louder. Veyra patrol. This far in the Boundary. This late.

  This wasn’t scheduled.

  He ducked behind a rusted dumpster, the sharp edge of corroded metal biting into his palm as he crouched low. The vehicle turned the corner, headlights cutting through the perpetual smog. Its silver hull gleamed obscenely against the backdrop of crumbling infrastructure and makeshift dwellings.

  Three more vehicles followed, forming a small convoy that crawled through the narrow street. Jameson’s pulse quickened. Four vehicles meant at least thirty-two officers, possibly more. This wasn’t a routine patrol. This was a statement.

  The lead vehicle’s loudspeaker crackled to life, its artificial voice echoing between the buildings. “Residents of the Boundary. By order of President Serel, a curfew is now in effect. Return to your dwellings immediately. Lethal force will be administered if you do not comply.”

  The statement played again as the vehicles crawled forward, the sound blaring into the night.

  Jameson watched as doors cracked open along the street. Not people fleeing inside as ordered, but emerging. First one, then three, then a dozen Boundary residents slipping out of buildings, faces hard with something beyond anger. They carried makeshift weapons—metal pipes ripped from walls, broken bottles, chunks of concrete. One man clutched a rusted machete that caught the patrol’s searchlight, sending a brief flash across the gathering crowd.

  The vehicles slowed.

  “Disperse immediately,” the synthetic voice commanded. “This is your only warning.”

  The crowd didn’t listen. It grew, swelling from the shadows of doorways and alleys until nearly fifty people stood in the street. Their silence was more unnerving than shouting would have been—a concentrated, deliberate quiet that spoke of a decision already made.

  Jameson recognized the signs. The Boundary was done being afraid.

  The first bottle arced through the air, smashing against the lead vehicle’s windshield. The sound was like a starting gun. The crowd surged forward as one body, colliding with the Veyra convoy in a wave of fury. Metal pipes rang against armored hulls. Fists pounded on windows. Bodies pressed against doors, preventing them from opening.

  The loudspeaker squawked again. “Disperse now or we will open fire! This is your—”

  A concrete block crashed through the lead vehicle’s side window, cutting off the warning. Glass shattered, raining down on the street as the crowd roared in approval. Hands reached through the broken window, grabbing at the officers inside. The vehicle rocked as more bodies pressed against it, tipping it precariously onto two wheels before it crashed back down.

  The door of the second vehicle burst open, and Veyra officers spilled out, weapons raised. Their black uniforms and reflective helmets made them look like insects among the drab colors of the Boundary. One fired a warning shot into the air. The crack of gunfire seemed to momentarily freeze the scene—the officers in their defensive stance, the crowd paused in their attack.

  Then someone from the back of the crowd hurled another bottle. It struck an officer’s helmet, exploding in a shower of glass and liquid. The officer staggered, then steadied his weapon and fired directly into the crowd.

  A woman fell, clutching her chest as blood bloomed across her shirt like an obscene flower.

  The crowd’s roar became a howl.

  Jameson moved. He sprinted out from behind the dumpster as the street erupted into chaos, his gun already raised. Veyra officers poured from the vehicles now, forming a defensive circle as they fired into the crowd. Bodies fell, but for every person who dropped, three more seemed to emerge from the shadows, throwing themselves at the officers with suicidal determination.

  The nearest officer was separated from his unit, backing away as three men advanced on him with raised weapons. His rifle swung between them, panic evident in his jerky movements. His back hit the wall of a building as his helmet turned frantically, searching for escape. There was none. He raised his rifle and fired at the closest rebel.

  Jameson was on him before the man’s body hit the ground. He moved like water through the chaos, slipping into the space between the officer and his remaining attackers. The officer’s head swiveled toward him, the reflective visor hiding the moment of recognition, the instant of fear as Jameson’s gun pressed against the gap between helmet and body armor.

  Jameson pulled the trigger.

  The sound was swallowed by the riot. Blood and brain matter spattered against the wall behind them as the officer crumpled. Jameson was already moving, targeting his next victim with the efficiency that had earned him his reputation.

  A second officer broke from the main group, backing away from the crowd with his weapon raised. He fired twice, dropping a teenage boy who’d been charging him with a length of pipe. The boy fell, writhing, screaming. The officer kept firing, bullet after bullet punching into the fallen child until he stopped moving.

  It was not protection. It was murder.

  He would fucking die for that.

  Rage rose in Jameson’s chest, a tide of burning acid that threatened to detonate. He circled behind the officer, closing the distance in three long strides. His arm snaked around the Veyra’s neck, twisting sharply, putting his full weight into the motion. The pop of vertebrae separating was the only thing Jameson heard as the cracking of bone vibrated through his forearm.

  He let the body fall, already scanning for his next target. The street had dissolved into pure violence now, Boundary residents overwhelming the officers through sheer numbers despite the automatic weapons cutting through their ranks. Blood darkened the cracked concrete, turning puddles of chemical runoff into crimson pools that reflected the flashing lights of the patrol vehicles.

  A third officer stumbled into Jameson’s path, helmet gone, face exposed and terrified. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the officer to register Jameson’s cold intent, just long enough for Jameson to see the plea forming on his lips.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  The knife slid from his sleeve into his palm, an extension of his arm as he lashed out in a single, fluid motion. The blade opened the officer’s throat from ear to ear, a perfect crimson smile blossoming beneath his chin. Blood sprayed across Jameson’s face, hot and metallic. The Veyra dropped to his knees, hands clutching futilely at his ruined throat, eyes still locked on Jameson’s as the light behind them dimmed and extinguished.

  When Jameson finally looked up, when he tore his eyes away—he saw the carnage. Saw the Veyra bodies scattered among rebels. Saw as the patrol vehicles were set ablaze with Molotov cocktails.

  Jameson stood in the center of it, chest heaving, blood dripping from his face, his hands, soaking into his clothes. The knife in his grip gleamed red and wet in the firelight.

  Around him, the Boundary went silent as a mother pushed through the crowd. The bodies parted for her as she made her way toward Jameson, toward the body on the ground beside him.

  Toward her son.

  The mother’s scream was the most horrific thing he had ever heard. Her anguish echoed into the burning night as she dropped to her knees in the blood soaked mud and pulled her dead child into her arms.

  Jameson’s heart twisted in his chest, a physical pain that radiated outward until his entire body ached with it. The sound cracked a deep vein into the foundation of his being, rage filling the void as he looked toward the Heart.

  This was Maximus Serel’s doing. The President who sat in his tower, who ordered these patrols, who treated the Boundary like an infestation to be controlled rather than people to be governed.

  The mother’s keening cut through the night air, raw and primal. It was a cry Jameson had heard too many times in his life—the sound of loss that couldn’t be measured, couldn’t be avenged, couldn’t be healed. Her tears mingled with her son’s blood as she rocked him back and forth, her fingers tracing his face as if trying to memorize it before death stole even that away.

  The crowd stood silent, heads bowed, a momentary reverence for grief in the midst of violence. Some removed their hats, pressing them toward their chests as they knelt with the mother. One by one, the Boundary knelt, rage simmering just below the surface, waiting for the next spark to ignite it.

  Then, from somewhere in the back of the crowd, a voice rose. Low but strong—the old anthem. The song that had started all of this, the song that so many had already died for, for the right to sing it. It was no longer the old forbidden anthem.