But he couldn’t. The hate that had burned so fiercely in his cell had cooled, transformed into something more complex, more painful. He looked at her now and saw not his brother’s killer, but a woman who had been used just as he had been. A pawn in his father’s game, manipulated into becoming the instrument of Brooker’s death without ever knowing the truth.

  Could he forgive that? He didn’t know. The wound was still too raw, the loss too profound. But he knew he couldn’t continue to blame her for it.

  “I should go,” he said finally, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from where it clung to her body. “Give you some privacy.”

  Her eye opened, finding his face with an intensity that made his breath catch. For a moment, he thought she might ask him to stay. Part of him hoped she would. But she simply nodded, another of those small, careful movements designed to minimize pain, emotional now. Not physical.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice steadier than before. “For helping me.”

  Greyson stood, his muscles protesting after so long in one position. He moved toward the door, each step taking him farther from her. At the threshold, he paused, his hand on the doorknob, his back to her. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around, to look at her again. If he did, he might not find the strength to leave.

  “They are going to die today, the Veyra that touched you,” he breathed. “And then I am going to kill my father.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 11 AM

  CALLUM’S OFFICE HAD TRANSFORMED into a war room. Maps covered the polished surface of his desk, marked with entry points, security rotations, and escape routes. Weapons were arranged neatly on a side table—sleek, expensive models that would never be traced back to him if things went wrong. Three different communication devices sat before him, each connecting to a different line of communication. One for the Veyra comms, one for his men, one for the rebellion.

  He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His heart thundered against his ribs, but his hands remained perfectly still. Years of practice, of negotiating with the most dangerous people in New Found Haven, had taught him to conceal his fear beneath a veneer of calm.

  His eyes flicked to the screen, showing the plaza where the Vow ceremony would take place. Veyra officers patrolled in regular intervals, their masks gleaming in the morning sun. Somewhere among them, blending perfectly, were Jaeger’s mercenaries—Daggermouths disguised as security, as staff, as innocent bystanders. The perfect predators, hidden in plain sight.

  They were so close to ending this. So close he could taste it. He lifted his tablet to his ear and listened for one ring until Jaeger’s voice cut through.

  “Status report,” Jaeger said without any pleasantries.

  “Surveillance is clear,” Callum confirmed, typing a command into his keyboard that would begin the loop he’d programmed into the Heart’s security system. “The cameras are blind to the Plaza now. Get your snipers in position.”

  “Understood,” Jaeger replied, not waiting for a response as the line went quiet.

  Callum swallowed, imagining the scene playing out in the plaza. Jaeger’s people would be drawing their weapons now, securing positions, preparing for the moment when Greyson and Shadera would be brought out for the ceremony. No one watching would notice anything amiss—not until it was too late.

  He set his tablet down, reaching for the Veyra transmitter. He took a deep breath, clearing his throat before pressing down on the button.

  “Central Command to Plaza Unit, confirm status of the Executioner.” Callum modulated his voice, adopting the flat, emotionless tone of a Veyra officer.

  There was a pause, longer than there should have been.

  Callum’s fingers tightened around the transmitter. Had he made a mistake? Used the wrong code phrase?

  Then Mikel’s voice came through, perfectly composed. “Executioner secure. Moving to plaza in forty-five minutes with subject.”

  Subject.

  Shadera. A woman reduced to a word.

  Guilt twisted his gut. He’d manipulated Greyson with the unshared knowledge of Brooker’s survival. Had pulled his best friend’s strings to convince him to get close to her. He knew at some point they’d need her on their side, and used Greyson as a pawn.

  Some days he truly felt as if he was no better than the rest of the garbage in this city.

  “Confirmed,” Callum replied. “Maintain escort protocol.”

  He ended the transmission, exhaling slowly. Mikel was the linchpin—the inside man with direct access to both prisoners. If he turned on them, if he had been compromised…

  No. He couldn’t think that way. Trust was a commodity in short supply, but they had no choice but to extend it now. Mikel had proven himself loyal to the cause, had risked everything to protect his son.

  His son.

  The truth still stunned Callum, though he’d had days to process it. He knew most secrets kept in this city, but this one—this one he was not prepared for. Greyson Serel, son of Mikel. Not Maximus.

  He checked his watch. Thirty minutes until the first phase needed to be complete. His throat felt dry, constricted. He reached for the glass of water on his desk, careful not to disturb the maps as he took a drink.

  His fingers swiped over his tablet, punching in the numbers for this third status report.

  “Ghost, what’s your position?”

  Jameson’s voice came through immediately, thrumming with anticipation. “In position at entry point. Teams ready for ascent.”

  Callum pulled up a different screen, this one showing the old maintenance shaft that led directly from Cardinal to the Heart. To the basement of his club. The access point should have been sealed years ago, but Callum had bribed the right officials, falsified the right reports. On paper, it didn’t exist anymore.

  “Shaft is secured,” Callum confirmed, checking the feed one last time. “You’re clear to begin your ascent. Remember, when you arrive at the basement, do not leave it under any circumstances until you receive the signal.”

  “Copy that.” A pause, then Jameson added, “Any word on Shade?”

  The concern in his voice was unmistakable.

  “She’s alive,” he said. “Moving to the plaza with Greyson. Mikel is with them.”

  A tense silence followed before he answered. “Understood.”

  Callum pulled the tablet from his ear. He knew what Jameson was thinking—that Mikel better have protected her, that someone would pay if she’d been harmed. The love Jameson had for Shadera was as obvious as it was hopeless. Some part of Callum pitied him for it.

  Three calls down.

  His fingers hesitated to dial the number. This was different. They had barely spoken since the meeting, outside of required conversation about the rebellion they hadn’t truly spoken.

  He scratched at his brow, an uncomfortable feeling settling into his chest, then dialed her number.

  She answered on the first ring, her voice clear and focused. “Yes?”

  Just hearing her steadied something in him. Lira had always been his constant, his North Star. Five years of watching her from a distance, of loving her in silence, had taught him to recognize every nuance in her voice. She was afraid, but resolute. Ready.

  “Are the drones in position?” he asked, focusing on the mission first.

  “Yes,” she replied. “All media feeds are secure and ready. The primary broadcast will begin in thirty minutes, and the secondary feeds showing people arriving are already live.”

  Callum nodded. The media was her domain—the official channels through which the Heart disseminated its propaganda, now reprogrammed to serve the rebellion instead. When the time came, they would broadcast the truth and no one would be able to look away.

  “And Brooker?”

  “He and his Veyra are at the base, they are working to secure the bombs.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s… good.”

  A silence stretched between them, filled with all the things they hadn’t said, all the fears they hadn’t voiced. Lira would be the most exposed of all of them when this began. She would be standing beside her father on that platform, playing her role as the dutiful daughter one last time while the rebellion erupted around her.

  “Callum?” Her voice was softer now, private.

  “I’m still here.” He closed his eyes, picturing her face. “Lira, I—”

  The words caught in his throat. Five years of hiding how he felt, and now, when it mattered most, he found himself hesitating again.

  No. Not this time.

  “I love you,” he said, the words rushing out like water breaking through a dam. “Please be safe today. Please come back to me.”

  She hesitated for a breath.

  “I love you too, Callie.” A pause, then, stronger, “I’ll see you tonight, when this is over.”

  She ended the call before he could respond. Callum stared at the tablet in his hand, a strange mix of elation and dread coiling in his stomach.

  He hadn’t lost her. They might die today.

  Both truths existed simultaneously.

  He set the tablet down and leaned back in his chair, surveying the screens again. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The rebels were in position. The surveillance was compromised. The weapons were distributed. The prisoners were being moved. The broadcasts were ready.

  It was going too smoothly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 11:45 AM

  THE WARM WATER HAD eased some of the pain, but Shadera’s body still felt like a battlefield—each movement a fresh skirmish against her broken ribs and battered flesh. She stood in the center of the bedroom, hair dripping onto the floor, the towel clutched to her chest. Every breath was a negotiation, shallow and careful, to avoid disturbing the fractured treaty with her rib cage.

  Her gaze drifted to the bed. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d come home, had been too deep in her mind to see anything but the pathway to the bathroom. A dress—long, white silk, with a slit that would reach her thigh and a neck and back that plunged dangerously low. Beside it lay a shawl to cover her arms and shoulders, and her mask. The skull stared back at her, almost taunting her. Reminding her of what she brought into this world. Death.

  Something else caught her eye—a small silver tray holding a folded note and a collection of white pills.

  Shadera moved toward it, each step sending ripples of pain through her body. Her muscles protested, begging for rest, for stillness, for mercy she couldn’t afford to grant them. Not today.

  She reached the bed and picked up the note with fingers that felt clumsy and swollen. The handwriting was elegant, flowing—nothing like her own jagged scrawl.

  Your dress for today. Do not hide the damage he has done to you, let the world see the monster he really is when the time is right. The pills are for the pain, you will need them.

  Her eyes moved on to the next line as she stilled.

  For what it’s worth, I always wanted a sister.

  xo, Li

  PS. You can trust the Captain.

  Shadera read the note again, then a third time, the words sinking into her consciousness and churning out guilt. She didn’t know what she’d done to her brother.

  She read the words again.

  I always wanted a sister.

  Sister. Family. Belonging. Things Shadera had buried so deep within herself that she’d nearly forgotten the ache of their absence. Things she’d convinced herself she didn’t need, didn’t want, couldn’t have.

  Shadera pushed the thoughts away, picking up the tray and dumping the pills into her mouth. She swallowed them dry, feeling their bitter taste scrape down her throat. Whatever they were—painkillers, stimulants, poison—she’d know soon enough. At this point, relief in any form was welcome.

  She let the towel drop, the air cool against her naked skin, and avoided her reflection in the mirror as she moved toward the window. The plaza below was filling with people—Heart citizens in their finest clothes, their masks gleaming as they gathered for the spectacle to come. Her stomach twisted at the sight of them, at their eager anticipation of the ceremony that would bind her to Greyson forever.

  Not that forever would be very long for either of them. Death seemed the most likely outcome for both of them, regardless of what choices they made, what orders they chose to obey.

  The drugs began to take effect, spreading through her system like warm honey, dulling the sharp edges of her pain without clouding her mind. Relief flooded her muscles, allowing her to straighten slightly, to draw a deeper breath without the knife-like stab between her ribs.

  She took one last look at the plaza below, at the predators gathering hungry for others’ suffering, then turned away and moved toward the dress.

  The fabric slipped through her fingers like water, cool and sleek against her skin. Lira had chosen well—the high slit would allow her to move, to fight if necessary, but she’d doubted that was her reason for choosing it.

  Do not hide the damage he has done to you, let the world see the monster he really is when the time is right.

  Understanding dawned slowly. This wasn’t just a dress—it was a statement. A weapon. Evidence.

  Shadera slipped it over her head, wincing as she raised her arms to guide it down her body. The silk clung to her curves, the white fabric stark against her dark skin. The neckline dipped between her breasts, exposing more bruising along her collarbones, while the back plunged low enough to reveal the constellation of scars and bruising littered there.

  She gathered the scarf in her arms as she slipped into the black heels at the foot of the bed, then reached for the mask last, the familiar weight settling in her hands. The skull grinned back at her as if it were the promise of death, a reminder of what she was—what she’d always been.

  She forced herself to take a deep breath, testing the medicine’s limits, then exhaled as she turned toward the door.

  It was time.

  * * *

  GREYSON STOOD IN THE center of the living room, staring at the note in his hand as if it might transform into something else if he glared at it long enough. Lira’s script swam before his eyes, each word a weight settling into his bones.

  Trust the Captain. He’s with us. When the time comes, follow his lead.

  The rest of the note contained instructions for the ceremony, details he’d already committed to memory, but it was those three words that kept repeating in his head.

  Trust the captain.

  A soft sound pulled his attention away from the paper, the soft click of heels against marble. He dragged his eyes upward and audibly gasped.

  She was light given form standing at the edge of the room. The dress exposed the brutality of what she’d survived these last few days, the bruises blooming across flesh like violent flowers.

  And yet, despite it all—despite the damage mapped across her skin—she was breathtaking.

  Something caught in Greyson’s chest as the realization finally, truly, settled into him. This woman was about to become his wife.

  The thought should have disgusted him. Should have filled him with rage, with revulsion. Instead, he felt a strange, twisted knot of emotions that he couldn’t begin to untangle—protectiveness, admiration, desire, guilt, all of it tangled up with one single, horrifying truth.

  He wanted to be her husband.

  “Did you get one from Lira too?” Shadera asked, her voice rougher than usual, proof of the screams she’d swallowed in that cell.

  Greyson’s throat worked, suddenly dry. He cleared it with a sharp cough, forcing his gaze back to the paper in his hand. “Yes,” he answered, the word coming out hoarse. “It was left by my suit.”

  She took a step into the room, moving carefully. She must have received medicine as well, he realized, noting how she held herself straighter than should have been possible with her injuries. Still, he could see the cost of each movement in the tightness around her mouth, the careful way she distributed her weight.

  The air was tight between them now, charged and uneasy in a way it hadn’t been before. The casualness in how they’d existed around the other, even while planning each other’s deaths, was gone, replaced by caution.

  “Mine said we can trust the captain,” she said, her good eye fixed on his face, searching for his reaction.

  Greyson nodded once, sharp and quick. “Mine says the same.” His gaze flicked toward the door separating them from the Veyra, then back to her. “If that’s the case, we should prepare ourselves.”

  Confusion flickered across her features. “What do you mean?”

  He gestured his head toward his bedroom at her back as he strode toward it. As Greyson passed her, for one single second his eyes fluttered shut, his breath catching in his lungs as her scent engulfed him. A low groan slipped over his lips as he forced himself to keep moving.

  She followed him down the hallway and into his room, then paused at the threshold of his closet as he entered. He moved to the back corner and knelt. His fingers found the edge of a floorboard, lifting it to reveal a hidden compartment beneath.

  Inside lay a small arsenal—four handguns, a collection of knives, spare ammunition, all with serial numbers that would never be traced back to him, unlike the ones in his weapons room.

  He glanced up at Shadera as she leaned against the doorframe to steady herself. Greyson selected one of the guns and checked its chamber, then rose, extending the weapon toward her grip first.

  “Are you going to shoot me with this one?” he asked, trying to push them back to comfortable territory.

  She stared at the gun, then at him, her brow furrowing as the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “… Yes?”

  Something loosened in Greyson’s chest, a knot of tension unwinding at this small sign that not everything between them was broken beyond repair. He found himself almost smiling back, a grim twist of his lips that felt foreign on his face after days of pain and rage.