Greyson’s breathing deepened behind the mask. She was beautiful—soft where the world had made him hard, unmarked where it had carved him into something barely human.

  She stepped out of the dress and approached him slowly, not with caution but rising desire. Her hands moved to his chest, fingers tracing the raised lines of old wounds.

  “It’s late, even for you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

  He caught her wrists, grip firm. “Don’t talk.”

  Maya nodded, obeying. She sank to her knees before him, hands sliding down his torso with practiced reverence.

  This was what he needed—complete surrender from someone who chose to give it, who understood that control was the only currency that mattered in his world.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, grip tightening until she gasped. The sound sent electricity down his spine, that perfect balance of power and submission that made his pulse race in ways the executions never could.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  She tilted her head back, meeting the dark holes of his mask with unwavering focus. In her eyes, he saw acceptance, anticipation. She knew what he was, what he needed, and offered herself as a willing sacrifice to his hunger for dominion.

  Her lips parted as she gazed up at him, knowing what he craved. She understood that this wasn’t about pleasure for him, not really. It was about having something, someone, that belonged entirely to him in these stolen moments.

  Her mouth found him, warm and wet, and Greyson’s head fell back at the contact. A low growl escaped from behind the mask as she began to work him, sliding him deeper and deeper into her throat.

  “Yes,” he breathed, fingers tightening in her hair as she took him to the base. “Just like that.”

  Maya’s eyes never left his, even as tears gathered at the corners from the force of his grip and the lack of oxygen. Greyson watched her, drinking in the sight of her kneeling before him.

  Here was something pure in its honesty—no politics, no masks beyond his own, no secrets. Just flesh and hunger and the sweet agony of control finally, finally in his hands.

  He pulled her back by her hair, just enough to see her swollen lips, the string of saliva connecting them still, then pushed her back down. He felt her throat constrict, felt her gag around him. Her hands gripped his thighs for leverage as he pumped into her. The wet sounds of her mouth filled the sterile silence of his bedroom, obscene and perfect.

  Maya moaned around him, the vibration sending shock waves through his body. He pulled out of her abruptly, his free hand wrapping around her throat, not quite cutting off air but making his ownership unmistakable. He could feel her pulse hammering against his palm, could sense the way she trembled between fear and arousal.

  This was what he needed.

  “Remember your safe word?” Greyson asked down at her.

  “Mercy,” she gasped.

  “Good girl,” he purred, then lifted her from the floor.

  Greyson would take what he wanted for the next few hours, would lose himself to the last bit of control he still had, he would devour it. Then, in seventeen hours, he would watch as his duty devoured him.

  CHAPTER SIX DO NOT HESITATE

  GREYSON FINALLY LIFTED HIS head from his pillow at four a.m., the interior of his skull a hollowed chamber of echoes. His sheets were unrumpled—there was no dream, no nightmare, not even rest. He rolled to his feet and stood naked in the center of the room for a full minute, letting the cold draft rise up his thighs. It was always worse at this hour, the time before the city’s noise swept in to drown out his existence.

  He moved through the darkness by muscle memory, stretching and cracking his limbs as he walked.

  The ritual started in the shower, where water ran hot and he stood until his skin stung red and senseless. He washed every inch of himself over and over again, careful to leave no trace of Maya, no hint of indulgence that might linger if his father chose today of all days to search for evidence of weakness.

  He dressed in silence.

  The black of his Veyra uniform marked him as the Executioner—tailored to the bone, every seam calculated for utility and intimidation. He laced the boots tight, knuckles turning white as he cinched the tongue, until it cut into flesh. He ignored the faint tremor in his left hand.

  At the vanity, he paused, staring at the mask on its velvet stand. To wear it was to become something else, to kill the man inside and give birth to the function.

  Greyson picked it up and turned it in the growing light. He examined it for flaws, micro-scratches, any evidence that someone had tampered with it. He trusted Maya to never harm him, but his father had warned him that enemies could find a way in through the smallest fissure. That a single hairline crack could mean the difference between legacy and oblivion.

  He hoped for oblivion

  The metal felt cold on his skin as he pressed the mask to his face and adjusted it until it fell into place perfectly against his features. A heavy breath gathered in the base of his lungs and he let it slowly seep out as he strode to his weapons room at the other end of his apartment, next to his study.

  His fingers punched in the code like he’d done a thousand times before, without thinking of the numbers. The metal enforced door opened with a sigh and he stepped into the room. From floor-to-ceiling, weapons of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls, shelves of bullets and tactical equipment were neatly placed and numbered—inventoried so not one item was out of place. A large metal table sat in the middle of the sterile room, a place for Greyson to clean and maintain his weapons.

  He pulled his Veyra-issued handgun from the wall and set it on the table, its matte surface absorbing the bright white light. He cleaned it before every use, dismantling and reassembling with surgical care. As he loaded the magazine, his hand betrayed him—a brief shudder, a relic from days earlier when he’d failed to pull the trigger at the appointed instant.

  A snarl exploded out of Greyson and he slammed his shaking fist onto the steel table. That moment of weakness had been watched by thousands—by his father, by the Veyra, by the entire fucking city.

  That hesitation had lost him his last shred of control.

  Greyson leaned forward, sucking in a deep, sharp breath, and curled his fingers around the edge of the table. He counted to ten, to twenty, to thirty, trying to swallow back the rage that owned his soul.

  Maybe his father was right. He was weak, too weak to stand firmly on either side of his life.

  He blew out the breath, letting his fingers slowly continue working on his gun. He chambered a round, inspected it one last time before he flipped the safety on and pushed it into its holster strapped around his shoulders.

  Greyson had twenty-seven minutes until he was scheduled to appear in the plaza. He spent seventeen of those walking in slow circuits of the apartment, inspecting every line and surface for order. He scanned the living area one last time, taking inventory of the silence and clean lines. He memorized the shape of it, the way the first hint of morning struck the glass, the way the city waited beneath.

  The rooms looked identical to the day he’d moved in. He liked it that way, the sense that the outside world could not touch these walls. It was just another bit of control Greyson was losing. After tonight, it would no longer belong to just him, it would belong to the Vow, to the contract his father had forced upon him. It would belong to Moraine Daunt.

  At six twenty Greyson walked to the entryway and pulled on his gloves. His hands slid into the leather, each finger fit in their place like it had been molded to his bones, and he flexed them until the tremor ceased. The weight of the day pressed in, but he pushed it down.

  There was no place for doubt today, no place for hesitation. Only obedience, and the cold perfection of the task.

  * * *

  DAWN BLED CRIMSON ACROSS the plaza’s marble, and Greyson stood ready to paint it redder still. The platform waited beneath him like an altar of judgment, its pristine surface soon to be christened with the blood of another rebel. He adjusted his mask that had become more familiar than his own face and checked his sidearm.

  The weight of it felt heavier today.

  The condemned knelt before him in silence. A woman from the Cardinal ring, her crime nothing more than smuggling medicine to the Boundary. The same crime he’d committed over and over again. Her hands trembled against the red cord that bound them, but her eyes held defiance even as tears carved tracks down her dirt-stained cheeks.

  Greyson’s throat constricted. Another life to take. Another soul to feed the Heart’s insatiable hunger for order.

  He should be kneeling beside her.

  * * *

  THREE HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, crouched behind the ornate railing of a luxury balcony, Shadera watched through stolen eyes.

  The mask she’d liberated from a drunken Heart socialite felt foreign against her skin—platinum and pearl where she was used to the light cotton fabric of her balaclava. But it granted her passage into this tower, this perfect vantage point to study her prey.

  Through the scope of her rifle, Greyson’s masked face filled her vision. It was a monstrous thing, an insectile carapace that turned his features into something mythic. The black uniform fit so tightly it might have been painted on. He stood with gloved hands clasped at the small of his back, his shoulders ridged with controlled violence, perfectly at ease in front of a city that wanted only to see him act. Behind him, the mirrored surface of Serel Tower and Haven Tower projected the live feed.

  Shadera cataloged every angle, every likely source of interference, and let her body relax into stillness as her scope fell to the rebel. A woman—nobody she recognized, but she watched as she kept her head lifted in defiance despite her trembling body. Years ago, seeing this would have made Shadera cry out or charge the stage to try to stop it. She knew better now, knew she would never be able to stop the entirety of the Heart from consuming the oppressed. Now, instead, she only let herself feel the animal focus of the job.

  * * *

  GREYSON’S VOICE CARRIED ACROSS the plaza as the last of the elite filled the area beneath the platform, cold and ceremonial.

  “For crimes against the motherland and for violation of the sacred laws of New Found Haven, this woman stands judged by the Heart. By order of President Maximus Serel, justice will be enacted in the manner most befitting the crime. Death.” His words were flat, an echo of every other execution. “The charges are as follows: conspiracy against the Heart, illegal communication between the rings, engagement in rebel activity, and contraband smuggling.”

  Every crime Greyson listed was a law he’d broken.

  “In accordance with tradition, the condemned are allowed a final statement and a preference for method of execution.”

  Like every other time, his focus turned to the rebel, asking her if she understood.

  The woman lifted her chin as her lips twisted into a sneer. “My only crime is showing mercy, caring for those you have forsaken. Your bullet is a blessing, death is better than life in the rings.”

  The word tore through his gut.

  Mercy.

  * * *

  SHADERA’S THROAT BEGAN TO tighten, her vision blurring as the crowd’s attention locked on Greyson, as if the air itself had thinned to the point of rupture.

  Panic began to rise, uncoiling in her chest as he pulled the gun from its holster. Every sound muted in her ears until there was nothing but deafening silence. Memories flashed behind Shadera’s eyes as Greyson pressed the muzzle to the base of the rebel’s skull.

  She saw her father’s face as he stared at Maximus Serel with a look of purest hate, unbroken until the bullet severed his spine. Her mother falling next, slumped over his bleeding body.

  Shadera couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t fucking breathe.

  * * *

  GREYSON SWALLOWED AND HIS hand began to shake as the rebel whispered something—a prayer, maybe, or a curse. He couldn’t tell which.

  He couldn’t hesitate, not again.

  His vision blurred then, without pause, he pulled the trigger.

  The crowd erupted in approval as blood splattered in an arc across the white marble, but he couldn’t hear it.

  All he could hear was static.

  * * *

  SHADERA’S BREATH CAUGHT AS the woman’s body crumpled. Through her scope, she saw Greyson’s shoulders sag almost imperceptibly, saw the way he holstered his weapon with mechanical efficiency while something vital died behind his mask.

  She watched as he stepped to the edge of the platform and said the last of the ceremonial words, then turned his back to the dead rebel as if the woman’s life had never mattered. As if she were just another animal slaughtered that he wouldn’t give a moment of thought to.

  Rage coiled hot in her chest as she watched him casually walk down the steps of the dais. She lowered her rifle.

  Not yet.

  The kill would come, but it would be personal. Face to face. She wanted him to see her eyes when she pulled the trigger, wanted him to know exactly who was ending his miserable existence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN DO IT

  THE PRIVATE CEREMONY ROOM in Haven Tower stood empty and expectant, its vaulted ceiling arching overhead like the rib cage of some violent beast. Polished milky floors reflected the ceremonial candles’ glow, their flames dancing in perfect stillness as if even they dared not disturb the sanctity of the space.

  Greyson arrived forty minutes early, as was his custom for all official functions. Control began with time.

  He paced the perimeter of the circular chamber, counting his steps with every lap. Thirty paces across. Sixty around. His hand traced the edge of the central altar where, in less than an hour, he’d be bound forever to Moraine Daunt through the sacred Vow.

  The twin veils waited on their pedestals at opposite sides of it—one black, one white, both woven with platinum thread that caught the light like trapped lightning. Once they lifted those veils, once they saw each other’s faces, there would be no turning back.

  The law was absolute. To see was to possess, to know was to own. The Vow ceremony wasn’t just tradition, it was the foundation of the Heart’s social order.

  Greyson moved to the western window, staring out at the city sprawled beneath him. From this height, even the Boundary’s decay looked beautiful under the setting sun, like a wound healing at the edges of something vital. He pressed his hand against the glass, feeling the chill seep into his skin.

  The Daunt family was old money, predating even the Serel line in some bastard branch of the old world. Their daughter was renowned for her loyalty, her absolute devotion to the purity of the Heart. Greyson had met her once, at a function so exquisitely boring he’d spent most of the night plotting how best to end his own life with the salad fork. Her voice was monotone, her eyes mathematical and calculating, and she never smiled.

  They would be perfect together, two masks missing their souls.

  He ran a hand through his hair, pushing every strand into place as he turned his back to the city and slowly returned to the altar.

  He wondered, not for the first time, if Brooker had ever felt nervous like this, or if he’d just compartmentalized it, bottled it up, and let it rot somewhere dark inside him. Nothing ever rattled Brooker, or if it did, he didn’t show it.

  He stood in the center of the room, closing his eyes as he squared his shoulders, and let his mind go blank except for the single imperative: endure.

  * * *

  HIGH ABOVE GREYSON, TUCKED into the shadows of the HVAC system, Shadera Kael held her breath. She’d been there for hours, her body contorted into the cramped metal tunnel that ran along the ceiling, and her muscles ached with protest.

  Through the narrow slats of the air vent, she’d watched the room being prepared—Veyra guards checking every corner, scanning for contraband, then departing without even a glance in her direction. She’d watched workers arrange the candles in perfect geometric patterns, place the ceremonial veils in their positions, and polish every surface until it gleamed.

  And now she watched Greyson, silent and statuesque in the center of the room.

  She shifted her weight, and the metal duct creaked beneath her. Greyson’s head snapped up at the sound, his masked face turning toward the ceiling.

  Time slowed to a crawl.

  Shadera made her decision in the silence between two breaths. With a solid kick, she dislodged the vent cover and dropped from the ceiling in a controlled fall, landing in a crouch on the floor as the metal crashed down beside her. Before Greyson could react, she was on her feet, blade drawn and pointed down.

  His body tensed, coiling like a spring as he pivoted to face her. Recognition flashed in his eyes—not of her face, but of what she was.

  A Daggermouth.

  “You’re either very brave or very stupid,” he said, voice low and steady. His hand didn’t move toward his weapons. “The entire Veyra guard will be here in minutes.”

  Shadera’s lips curled into a feral smile. She only needed seconds. “Plenty of time to carve your heart out, Serel.”

  She lunged forward, blade slicing through air where his throat had been a heartbeat before. Greyson twisted away faster than she expected, his elbow connecting with her ribs as he spun past her. Pain blossomed across her side, but she’d been born in pain, raised in it.

  Shadera circled him, blood singing in her veins as he simply clasped his hands behind his back, and let her.

  “Too good for a fight, Serel?” she taunted. “Or are you just a coward hiding behind that mask?”

  She feinted left as the words left her lips, then drove her knife toward his abdomen.

  In one fast motion, Greyson unclasped his hands and caught her wrist mid-strike, twisting until the bones ground together. Her blade clattered to the marble floor.