Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Greyson considered Callum’s words.

“Maximus will have no choice but to execute her when that information is made known, and both your problems will be solved. You’ll know who killed Brooker and you’ll be released from your Vow to her.”

Lira leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she turned to Greyson. “It could work. If we play this right, it’ll make her a liability, back Father into a corner.”

“Outside of the Daunts and the Veyra, does anyone in the Heart know who she is? That she’s a Daggermouth or that she tried to kill him?” Callum asked Lira.

Lira paused for a moment, as if she was sifting through thoughts. “No, I don’t think so. As far as I’m aware, no one outside the inner circle, and the highest ranking Veyra knows there was even an assassination attempt.”

“What about the prisoners she was locked up with?” Greyson asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

“Dead,” Lira answered quietly. “Either killed in the prison yesterday or . . .” She trailed off, but they all knew what went unsaid.

Or Greyson would be putting a bullet in their skull on that platform before they could tell anyone.

Callum nodded slowly, pushing the thought from his mind as the pieces began clicking into place. “Good. We need to keep it that way, this secret gives us power too.”

Greyson drained the rest of his whiskey, then set the glass down. “And what happens when the Daggermouths see her with me? When they refuse to believe she would willingly take the Vow or turn on them, and start an uprising?”

A valid concern, Callum had to admit. Callum had worked with many of them over the years, when procuring items off the black market for his clients. Jaeger’s assassins were fiercely loyal to their own. The idea of one of their best operatives not only failing to kill her target, but marrying him instead, would be met with skepticism at best and violent retribution at worst.

He drummed his fingers against his thigh, mind racing through contingencies and potential pitfalls. “We’ll cross that bridge if it comes to it,” he said finally. “But if we do this correctly, she’ll be dead before they can mobilize.”

Greyson’s jaw worked and Callum watched as he turned the plan over in his mind.

“So what now?” he asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone. “I just play another role, pretend I actually want to get to know her? That I’m some doting fiancée and not imagining all the ways I could end her life every time I look at her?”

Callum’s head tilted, studying Greyson’s face through the slits in his mask. “What does she look like, anyway? Objectively. Is she attractive, at least?”

Greyson didn’t respond, just stared at him with that flat, unreadable expression he’d perfected over the years. The one that could make even the most hardened Veyra officer’s blood run cold.

“I haven’t noticed,” he finally answered.

Callum’s smile turned knowing. “Sure you haven’t. Well, try to notice. Might make playing the role a bit easier if you can find something appealing to focus on. Just be careful, Grey. Don’t go falling for your fake wife.”

Lira scoffed at the statement as Greyson grimaced, disgust twisting his features. “I’d never touch a Daggermouth.”

“Good. Then this should be simple. Make her trust you. Make her think you’re on her side, that you’re falling for her and understand her hatred for the Heart. Get her to confide in you about the Daggermouths, about their operations, their contracts. If you can get her talking, she might let slip information about Brooker’s killer.” He kept his voice casual, as if they were discussing the weather and not a plot to manipulate and destroy a woman.

“Fine,” Greyson finally sighed after a long pause. “I’ll do it. But if we’re going to sell this, I need you to come back to the apartment with me. Help me clear out my father’s surveillance, we need the place clean if I’m going to make this convincing.”

Callum nodded, pushing off the ledge of his desk and stretching his neck to ease the tension that had settled there. “Let’s do this. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can start working on your little Daggermouth wife.”

He needed Greyson focused, not constantly looking over his shoulder wondering what his father might overhear.

The siblings stood in tandem, Lira’s eyes darting between them. “What can I do to help?”

“Get her a mask,” Greyson answered, his tone now resigned. “Something a Daggermouth would like. Something she would like.”

Lira’s brow furrowed behind her mask. “Won’t she get one before the ceremony? When they introduce her into Heart society?”

“It’ll be my first gift to her,” Greyson responded. “Before the family dinner tomorrow.”

Greyson released a heavy sigh, then swung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “Thank you, Li. And I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you.”

Callum smiled as he watched Lira’s fingers wrap around Greyson’s forearm as he pressed his lips to the top of her head. He had no siblings, no family that cared for him as they cared for each other. Greyson was the closest thing to a brother he would ever have, and he would do anything for him—for them.

This plan, as neat as it sounded in theory, felt fragile. Too many variables, too many ways it could shatter.

Greyson was already moving toward the door, purpose in his stride. Callum followed, casting one last glance at Lira. Her posture had gone rigid again, the mask of Heart perfection sliding back into place as she dipped her chin.

The thump of the club’s music and pulsing neon lights washed over them as they stepped out of his office and made their way down the stairs. Greyson moved through the crowds like a shark through water, parting bodies with his mere presence. Callum kept pace, his mind still turning over the details of their scheme.

Get the Daggermouth to trust Greyson. To confide in him. To let her guard down just enough to reveal her secrets. It sounded simple, but Callum knew better. This woman had tried to kill Greyson, had come closer than anyone ever had. She was dangerous, unpredictable. And now she was living in Greyson’s home, sleeping under his roof.

The unease in Callum’s stomach twisted tighter. He knew Greyson, knew the darkness that lived behind his friend’s eyes. The violence that simmered just beneath the surface, always one trigger pull away from erupting. Putting him in close quarters with a Daggermouth was like trapping a wolf and a lion in the same cage.

Blood would be spilled. The only question was whose.

Chapter fifteenI Could Show You

The vodka had seemed like such a good idea three hours ago. Now, as black smoke billowed from the oven and something that might have once been steak sizzled angrily in a pan, Shadera was beginning to reconsider. The kitchen of Greyson’s apartment swam before her eyes, all gleaming surfaces and complicated appliances with holographic displays.

She grabbed the oven door, yanking it open. A wall of smoke hit her face, acrid and choking. Whatever she’d shoved in there—bread? She thought it had been bread—was now a blackened lump that might have been useful as a weapon but certainly wasn’t food anymore.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed, stumbling backward over her own feet. The room tilted, reminding her that she’d finished most of the bottle. Good vodka, too. The kind they’d kill for back home.

Her stomach cramped with hunger. Days of barely eating had left her hollow, and the vodka only sharpened that emptiness. She grabbed the bottle from the counter and took another pull as smoke saturated the room. The burn was familiar, comforting. Unlike everything else in this glass prison.

The meat wasn’t cooking right. Parts were black, parts still raw. She turned the flame higher, reasoning that more heat meant faster cooking. The oil in the pan began to bubble. Then to smoke. Fire erupted from the pan. Orange tongues licked upward, catching the oil she’d poured too liberally.

“Fuck.” The word came out slurred, frantic.

She spun toward the sink, her movements loose and uncoordinated, grabbing the first thing she found—a pitcher of water. The fire alarm started shrieking, the sound drilling into her skull. The flames were higher now, licking at the range hood. She raised the pitcher just as the front door exploded open.

Greyson stood in the entryway for a fraction of a second, taking in the scene—the inferno on his stove, the smoke pouring from his oven, and her standing in the middle of it all with a pitcher of water and what she imagined was a spectacularly guilty expression.

“Stop!” He moved faster than her drunk eyes could properly track, shoving her out of the way. “Not water on a grease fire, you fucking—”

The pitcher in her hand went flying as she fell backward, crashing to the floor as water rained down on her. The pitcher shattered as it met the ground beside her, sending shards of glass to her uncovered legs.

Shadera hissed as a piece of broken glass lodged itself into her calf and Greyson barked an order to whoever had entered the apartment with him. The man was already moving, throwing open every window he could reach and cracking the door to the living room balcony. Greyson had already tamed the fire, slamming the lid over the flames as the remaining black smoke billowed out of the now open airways.

Greyson turned to take a step toward her, his eyes hard. Glass crunched under his boots in the first second, and in the next he was slipping on the water slicked floor, plummeting toward her. She scrambled backward, but her drunken limbs didn’t move fast enough.

He caught himself before his body crushed hers, his bare palms meeting glass of either side of her head. A small, pained groan slipped through his clenched teeth as his mask reflected her face back at her—soot streaked, eyes wide with shock and vodka. She could feel his heart hammering through his chest where it pressed against hers.

“What the fuck were you doing?” The words came out arctic, each one perfectly placed to make her feel like a child being scolded.

Shadera’s throat worked as she swallowed. The proximity, his warm body pressed against her sent heat, and warning signals through her intoxicated nerve endings.

“I was hungry,” she answered, pushing onto her elbows. The movement closed the small distance between them. Greyson studied her, his eyes boring into hers, and for one single heartbeat they dropped to her lips before he shoved himself to his feet.

He didn’t offer her a hand to help her up, just strode to the stove and snatched the pan off its surface. She watched him from the ground as he made his way to the trash chute by the fridge, and shoved the pan down it. Shadera scoffed as she rolled to her side and pushed herself from the floor.

He’d probably never washed a dish in his fucking life.

“You nearly burned down my apartment because you were hungry?” Greyson’s voice was climbing now, incredulity breaking through the cold fury. “There’s a comms system for a reason. Chapman would have—”

“I don’t support slavery,” Shadera cut him off, gripping the corner of the island as the room swayed.

“Slavery?” Greyson snapped as his eyes locked back on to hers. “Chapman is—”

“I’m Callum.” His voice cut through the tension and both their heads turned toward him. He stood by the window, having shed his suit jacket at some point. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms marked with tattoos and old scars Shadera’s trained eye recognized as defensive wounds.

He moved toward them casually, stopping just outside striking distance—a man who knew how to navigate violence without inviting it. His mask was copper and gold, more ornate than Greyson’s austere obsidian.

Callum inclined his head to the side. “Long-time friend of our brooding Executioner here.”

Greyson shot him an annoyed glance before taking a deep breath and letting his shoulders relax by a fraction. “He’s here to do some work on the locks.” He nodded toward the kitchen island.

Shadera followed his gaze, noting the surveillance scanner he had used her first night sitting on the edge. Understanding clicked into place. Not locks. The surveillance devices.

She studied Callum with new interest, her drunk mind working to categorize him. Heart elite, obviously, but something else too. The way he moved, the scars, the casual comfort with crises.

“What do you do?” she asked, hearing the slight slur in her words. “Murder people too?”

Callum’s laugh was genuine, warm in a way that nothing in the Heart should be. “No, I have people for that.” The honesty of it, delivered with such casual charm, made her blink. “I do many things. Run the Entertainment District. Procure things that need procuring. Currently, I’m helping you two lovebirds.”

Shadera nearly gagged at the word as he winked at Greyson who looked like he might murder him right there in the kitchen.

“The study?” Greyson ground out.

“The study,” Callum confirmed, with a mischievous glint in his eye as he turned back to Shadera. “Try not to burn anything else down while I work.”

Shadera didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling at himself behind the mask as he disappeared off into some corner of the apartment, leaving them alone with the mess.

The kitchen still reeked of smoke as Shadera leaned against the counter and pulled the jagged piece of glass from her leg then tossed it onto the counter. She let her eyes wander to Greyson, watching him survey the damage with those cold blue eyes.

“How drunk are you?” He didn’t look at her when he asked, just started gathering the broken remains of the pitcher from the floor.

“Wouldn’t mind being drunker.” She reached for the vodka bottle, but he moved it away from her before her fingers could hook around the neck.

“You should have called Chapman.” His voice carried that particular tone that made her want to throat punch him. “That’s what he’s here for.”

“Like I said, just because I’m currently a prisoner here does not mean I’ll add to your workers’ suffering.” The words came out just as she intended, sharp and accusatory.

Greyson stopped moving for one second then turned to fully face her. They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island now, the granite between them like a battle line.

“Chapman isn’t a slave,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He’s paid well. Very well. He’s from the Cardinal, has family there. He’s been with me for ten years now, by choice.”

Shadera scoffed, the sound ugly in her throat. “Right. Because someone from the Cardinal has so many choices working for the Heart’s Executioner.”

Greyson’s jaw shifted, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “He can leave whenever he wants. I’ve offered to help him relocate three times. He stays because—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Why am I explaining this to you?”

“Because you’re trying to pretend you’re not a monster,” she said, with a mock pout and sarcasm lacing every word. “Good help must be hard to find when you murder children for a living.”

His hands flattened against the granite, and she watched the tendons in his forearms go taut. For a moment, she thought he might come around the island, might wrap those hands around her throat again. Part of her wanted him to. Fighting was easier than talking.

“Can you cook?” The question came out of nowhere, his tone shifting to something almost curious.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question. Can you cook?”

The vulnerability hit her before she could stop it, cutting through the vodka haze like cold water. Her shoulders went rigid, defensive. “No.”

He waited, those eyes steady on her face.

“In the Boundary, we don’t—” She hated the way her voice cracked. “Food comes in cans. Packages. Already made. We don’t have fresh anything. Don’t have fancy stoves with temperature controls and timers and—” She gestured vaguely at the kitchen. “We don’t have any of this.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not pity—she would have hit him for pity. Something else. Understanding, maybe, though that seemed impossible from someone who’d never known hunger.

“Sit,” he said.

“I don’t take orders from—”

“Just fucking sit, Shadera.” It was softer this time, tired, but still a command. He pulled a crystal glass from a cabinet, set it on the island between them. Then he retrieved the vodka, pouring two fingers into the glass. “Civilized people use glasses.”

“Good thing I’m not civilized then.” But she took the glass anyway, the crystal cool against her palm as she sank onto the stool. She took a sip, watching him as he moved to the refrigerator.

He pulled out ingredients with an efficiency that spoke of familiarity—vegetables she recognized and some she didn’t, another package of meat, bottles and jars of things that might have been spices or sauces. Each movement was relaxed, economical.

Shadera watched, suspicion warring with curiosity as he arranged the ingredients on the counter. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” he answered without looking at her.

“You?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “The Executioner knows how to cook?”

“The Executioner has a name,” he replied, pushing the vegetables into the sink and turning on the water. “And yes, I cook.”

The admission surprised her. She took another sip of vodka, let it burn away the questions that wanted to follow. He reached for something on the counter—a small tablet—and pressed a button. Music filled the kitchen, nothing like the thundering bass from the clubs in the Boundary. This was something instrumental, complex, a blend of sound that seemed to wrap around the space.

Then he rolled up his sleeves

The movement shouldn’t have caught her attention, but the vodka made her notice things she usually wouldn’t. The fabric folded back to reveal forearms that were . . . She took another drink. They were just arms. Nothing special about the subtle flex of muscle under skin as he reached for a knife.

The domesticity of the scene was so at odds with everything she knew about him that for a second she wondered if she was dreaming as he began to cut the vegetables.

The knife moved through the items with ease, reducing them to uniform pieces. He had surgeon’s hands, she thought hazily. Killer’s hands. She’d seen those hands sign death warrants, had imagined them covered in blood. But watching them work now, she could almost forget what they had done. How many necks they’d snapped. How many triggers they’d pulled. Now they were almost gentle, careful, creating instead of destroying.

She found herself watching his fingers—long and elegant, yet powerful—as they guided the blade.

“Where did you learn to cook?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

He paused, knife hovering above a red pepper. “My mother taught me the basics. The rest I learned on my own. I find it . . . cathartic.”

“Your mother?” The concept seemed absurd—the Executioner as a child, standing at his mother’s side, learning something as ordinary as cooking.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I wasn’t born with a gun in my hand.” There was a hint of something like amusement in his voice. “I had a childhood. Of sorts.”

She didn’t answer, instead took another slow sip from her glass as she watched him, the alcohol softening the edges of her perception. Her eyes traced the line of his jaw below the mask, the way it flexed as he concentrated.

The muscles in his back moved beneath his shirt as he worked, and she found herself tracking the movement with unconscious interest. His movements were graceful, controlled, a body trained for violence. He was built like a fighter—not bulky, but carved from consistent training. She wondered what kind of training produced a body like that. What kind of pain he’d endured to earn those muscles.

A traitorous part of her mind whispered that he was beautiful, in the way that dangerous things often are—a predator in motion, a storm rolling in, a blade catching the light. She crushed the thought immediately.

Sure, he was objectively attractive, if you liked the tall, brooding, homicidal type. Which she didn’t. Obviously.

This was the man who executed citizens for petty crimes. The man who stood on that platform day after day, ending lives with no emotion. The embodiment of everything she’d spent her life fighting against.

And yet, she couldn’t look away from his hands.

The smell that began filling the kitchen was nothing like her failed attempt. Rich and heavy, layers of flavor she couldn’t identify. Her stomach cramped.

“What are you making?” she asked, needing something to redirect her thoughts.

“Pasta,” he answered, scraping the chopped vegetables into a pan. “Simple but filling. And hard to burn,” he added, the ghost of mockery in his tone.

She should have been offended, should have snapped back with something caustic. Instead, she found herself watching as he added seasoning and adjusted the heat with a confidence she envied.

Her mind drifted to more questions, wondering about the life he lived that she didn’t know. He’d been gone all day. After threatening her this morning, after wrapping his hands around her throat, he’d disappeared.

Shadera lifted her fingers to her neck at the memory, the skin where he had touched tingling.

“Where were you today?” Another question fleeing her lips without permission.

He didn’t look up from the pan. “Does it matter?”

“You threatened to kill me this morning.” She took another sip from the crystal glass. “Then left me locked in here.”

“I needed space.” Simple, honest.

“From me?”

“From the temptation to follow through on the threat.”

The admission should have frightened her, knowing what he was capable of. Instead, she found herself appreciating the honesty. No pretense, no games. Just truth.

Silence fell between them again as she studied his profile. It was a shame, really. A shame that such a pretty face belonged to someone she had to kill. A shame that those beautiful, strong hands had so much blood on them. A shame that—

No. She pulled her thoughts back sharply. The vodka was trying to make him into something human. He was the Executioner. That was all he was.

An hour had passed in strange suspension, the only sounds the sizzle of the pan and the classical music playing softly over the speakers. Shadera had switched from vodka to water at some point—when, she couldn’t quite remember—but the alcohol still swam through her blood, making everything soft and dangerous.

Callum emerged from the study like he’d been born from shadows, quiet despite his size. “We’re invisible,” he announced, satisfaction threading through his voice.

A small smile crept onto Shadera’s lips. Something about him reminded her of Jameson, how he could sneak into any place with complete silence, his effortless charm and confidence.

Without hesitation, Greyson reached up and pulled off his mask.

The casualness of it stopped Shadera’s breath. The way he just removed it, like taking off a coat, setting it on the counter with no more thought than that. His dark hair was slightly mussed from the mask’s pressure, and he ran a hand through it absently, making it worse.

“You have a death wish,” she snapped, as Callum smirked in her direction.

Greyson ignored her, turning to Callum. “Completely clean?”

“Clean as we can make it.” Callum moved into the kitchen, helping himself to a glass from the cabinet like he lived here. “Left all the devices in place, of course—moving them would raise suspicion. But I’ve created a loop. As far as anyone monitoring knows, you’re both having a riveting evening of silence in separate rooms.”

“How?” Shadera asked, professional curiosity piquing. “Heart surveillance systems run interference recognition algorithms that detect synthetic loops.”

Both men turned to look at her, surprise evident in their straightening postures.

“Murderous and curious, I like that,” Callum quipped, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve got a signal interceptor in the study now. It catches their feed, splices it to be on a believable loop then feeds it back to them. So technically, nothing is synthetic. It’s all their footage, just—adjusted. They only see what I want them to see.”

“But the audio signatures would show the splice pattern.” She leaned forward. “Unless you’re using a randomizer to vary the ambient noise when you feed it back through their surveillance.”

Callum blinked at her as Greyson’s mouth dropped slightly open.

“Exactly.” Callum sounded delighted. “I’ve got it cycling through over twelve thousand different background variations. Enough that pattern recognition software won’t flag it.”

“What about thermal imaging? The new Heart surveillance systems usually have heat detection.”

“You know your shit,” Callum replied, moving closer with genuine interest. “Thermal spoofing projectors. Three of them now floating around in the ventilation system, calibrated to project heat signatures that match your normal patterns. Took me about thirty minutes to map your typical movement patterns from the last day’s footage.”

“Smart.” She found herself almost impressed. “But what about voice? They’re expecting conversation—”

“Ah, that’s the beautiful part.” Callum pulled out a small device from his pocket. “Voice synthesis. I pulled your voices from the recordings, fed it through an AI processor. Now I can make you say anything.”

He pressed a button, and Shadera heard her own voice say, “I’m going to bed. Stay away from me.”

Then Greyson’s, “Gladly.”

The accuracy was unsettling. Perfect pitch, perfect tone.

“How the hell,” Greyson interjected, looking between them, “do you know surveillance technology this well but can’t operate a stove?”

Shadera’s jaw tightened as she forced away the small smile forming from his bewildered tone. “Survival in the Boundary requires different skills than your pampered existence, little heir.”

“Learning to disrupt Heart security systems is survival?” His tone had shifted to genuinely curious.

If he understood what was truly happening in his city, he would realize what a stupid fucking question that was.

“When infiltrating Heart facilities for medical supplies, for food? Yes,” she snapped, annoyance flaring. “The people dying of infection don’t care how I get the antibiotics.”

Silence stretched between them. Callum looked back and forth, then clapped his hands once. “Well, this has been illuminating. But I have places to be, people to threaten, credits to collect, the usual evening activities.”

He moved toward Greyson, pulling him into one of those masculine embraces that involved more back slapping than actual hugging. “Try not to kill each other,” he said, loud enough for her to hear. Then he whispered something against his ear, something she couldn’t quite catch.

Greyson nodded once, his expression unreadable as Shadera’s suspicions piqued.

Callum turned to her, offering a slight bow that somehow managed to be both mocking and respectful. “Well, killer, welcome to the Heart.” He paused at the entryway, glancing back. “You know, Greyson is more than what you see on those screens. Much more.”

Before she could respond, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Greyson returned to the stove, plating whatever he’d been cooking with the same focus he probably used to clean his weapons. Two plates, arranged with an attention to detail that seemed excessive for food.

Shadera drifted to the window, drawn by the lights below. The Heart sprawled beneath them, glowing like circuitry that spilled over the rings. Beautiful and cold. From this direction, you couldn’t see the execution platform. Couldn’t see the blood that never quite washed clean from the stones.

“The city is almost beautiful from up here,” she said, not really talking to him. “When you can’t see the suffering.”

“Almost.” His voice came from directly behind her, closer than she’d expected. She could see his reflection in the glass, watching her instead of the view. “Beautiful things are often built on ugly foundations.”

She paused, staring at him through the glass, desperately trying not to overanalyze his words. She turned to face him, finding him less than an arm’s length away. “Speaking from experience?”

“No,” he answered quietly, quickly. “There’s nothing beautiful in my world.”

The words hit Shadera with a force she wasn’t prepared for. It was sad, really, all this luxury, all this wealth and stability, and still he found no joy in it. Shadera knew better, had seen with her own eyes that beauty could be found in every corner if you looked for it. Even when the world was burning.

He held out one of the plates. “Eat.”

She didn’t argue.

The food was perfect. Of course it was. Everything he did, he seemed to do to perfection. She ate standing by the window, aware of him moving through the space, cleaning up the messes until the kitchen looked as if it had never been touched. It felt domestic, strange.

“I could show you,” he said suddenly.

She looked up from the plate. “What?”

“The Heart. Tomorrow, before the dinner. I can show you what it looks like in the light.”

Suspicion flared immediately. “Why would you do that?”

He met her eyes then from across the low-lit room, the intensity of them cutting through her drunken haze still clouding the edges of her thoughts. “Because we need to sell this arrangement. You need to look comfortable in my world, like you belong here. And because . . .” He paused, his throat working. “Because I have people I care about who are in danger if we fail at this.”

The honesty of it caught her off guard. “Callum,” she stated. “It was him in the drone footage with your sister, wasn’t it? I recognized the mask he wore tonight from what your father showed us.”

He didn’t answer, only nodded once.

She thought of Jameson as her eyes turned back to the window, of the drones that had hunted him, of what Maximus might do to him if she stepped wrong. They were from two very different worlds but both trapped inside the same nightmare. Both performing for an audience that would destroy everything they cared about if they missed a single line.

Shadera closed her eyes, pulling in a deep breath through her nose and letting it slowly exhale through her lips as she let the situation sink in, truly sink in. She hadn’t let herself see past the idea of killing him until now, hadn’t let herself accept that she was, in fact, a prisoner here until she could concoct a plan that wouldn’t get the people she loved killed.