Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling strange on her tongue. “For showing me.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something more complex she’d not yet learned to read. He inclined his head, nodding as he turned away from her, then hesitated.

Without turning back, he added, “For what it’s worth, I’m not asking you to believe in the Heart. Just to survive it long enough to find a way out. For both of us.”

Then he was gone, leaving Shadera alone with Lira’s packages and a head spinning with conflicting thoughts.

She sank onto the couch, the skull mask heavy against her face. She should remove it—they were alone in the apartment, so no need for the pretense. But something kept her from lifting it away, as if the mask provided a barrier not just between her face and the world, but between her emotions and her judgment.

Every preconceived notion she had about Greyson had been challenged today. Not erased—he was still the Executioner, still the enemy. But beneath that identity, he was also a boy caught in a web. A man created by an evil system whose soul, at the very least, suffered for the pain he’d caused. Evil could sometimes come in the form of beauty.

Chapter nineteenI Didn’t Know

Greyson checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes, the silver face gleaming under the apartment’s soft lighting. His fingers moved to his cuff links, adjusting them needlessly as he stood by the door. The dinner would be a nightmare—it always was with his father—but tonight carried an additional weight of dread. Tonight, a Daggermouth would sit at his father’s table. He ran a finger between his collar and neck, fighting the sensation of being slowly strangled.

His shoulder holster pressed against his ribs beneath his tailored jacket, the weight of the gun a comfort he never had at these family dinners. But with Shadera at his side, he wasn’t taking chances. Chapman had tried to dissuade him but Greyson had been adamant. If things went south, he wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

What would his father do? The question circled his mind like a vulture. Maximus never did anything without calculation, without purpose. The dinner invitation hadn’t been a courtesy, it was a move in whatever game he was playing. Shadera was the wild card neither of them could fully predict.

He was bringing her into the serpent’s nest. Throwing her to his father like raw meat to a predator, knowing he would use every weapon at his disposal to break her, to prove his dominance over both of them.

Greyson checked his watch again. Five minutes until they needed to leave. Five minutes to mentally prepare for whatever psychological warfare his father had planned.

“Should I go retrieve her?” Chapman asked from the kitchen doorway, his posture rigid even in this private setting.

“No.” Greyson felt the word come out more sharply than intended. “She’ll be ready.”

He could still hear the echoes of their conversation in the car. That moment of honesty that had evolved between them.

‘No, I don’t believe in it.’

A single sentence that could get him killed.

He hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but something about her directness had pulled the truth from him before he could think of a lie.

The soft click of a door opening pulled him from his thoughts. He turned toward the sound, expecting the worst—jeans, perhaps, or whatever other form of rebellion she might have concocted from Lira’s carefully selected wardrobe.

What he saw first were the boots. Heavy, black combat boots, scarred from use and utterly inappropriate for a Serel dinner. His eyes tracked upward, a reprimand already forming on his lips.

It died there.

The dress was black, simple in its design but devastating in its effect. It hugged curves he’d been trying very hard not to notice, the fabric clinging to her body before falling in a soft line at the center of her inked and scarred thighs. The contrast between the delicate dress and those battle-worn boots should’ve been jarring, but somehow it worked—a visual representation of the contradiction that she was.

His gaze continued upward, past the cinched waist to the neckline that dipped lower than Heart fashion typically allowed. It exposed the elegant hollow of her throat, the crooked line of collarbones that hadn’t healed correctly, and a constellation of scars that marked her skin like stars on a map of violence. One particularly vicious scar ran along her right shoulder, disappearing beneath the thin strap of the dress.

She’d done nothing to conceal the marks of her life, of her profession. They were displayed openly, almost defiantly. As were the tattoos—prison numbers across her knuckles, patterns wrapping around her arms, script cascading down the side of her neck and others he couldn’t fully see but glimpsed as she shifted her weight.

“Turn around,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

She stared at him for a moment, hesitating before complying. She pivoted slowly to reveal the back of the dress, or rather, the absence of it. The fabric plunged low, exposing the entire plane of her back. More scars, more tattoos. These ones brutal and deep. Bullet wounds and gashes that puckered white against her dark skin.

The dress didn’t just reveal flesh, but history—pain and survival written in scar tissue and ink. It was beautiful in its brutality, an honest reflection of their world that could not be erased even if the Heart tried.

She was beautiful, and he hated himself for thinking it. She was everything he was never allowed to be—wild and untamed chaos.

Greyson swallowed hard, suddenly aware that he’d been staring. He turned away abruptly, reaching for his mask where it sat on the entry table.

“You can’t wear those boots,” he said, focusing on the easiest problem to address.

“I’m not wearing those death traps your sister sent,” Shadera replied, her voice steady but with an edge he’d come to recognize as nervousness. “I need to be able to run if things go bad.”

Another similarity between them. An exit strategy always lingering in the back of their minds.

“Things won’t go bad.” Even to his own ears, the reassurance sounded hollow.

Shadera snorted. “Sure. And I’m marrying the Executioner by choice.”

The contempt in her voice when she said ‘Executioner’ was familiar, comforting in its consistency. At least that hadn’t changed, even if everything else between them seemed to be shifting into uncertain territory.

“Besides,” she continued, moving past him to the entryway table where her mask lay, “I need a place to hide my butter knife in case your father gives me an opportunity to put it in his throat.”

The crude words contrasted so sharply with her appearance that Greyson couldn’t help the small, dark smirk that twisted his lips.

“You should probably keep those thoughts to yourself tonight, if you plan to make it out alive,” he said, watching her reflection in the mirror. Auburn curls fell over her shoulder, as their eyes met in the mirrored glass.

She turned back to face him, and he was struck again by the transformation. The dress didn’t make her soft—nothing could do that—but it revealed a different facet of her, like a blade catching the light from a new angle.

“Do I make you nervous, little heir?” Her voice held a challenge, but beneath it, he caught the genuine question. She was asking something else entirely.

“No,” he answered, meeting her eyes directly. “But he should make you nervous. Everything you’ve seen, everything you think you know about the Heart, about my family—it’s surface level. Tonight, you might just have a glimpse at what’s beneath.”

Something in his tone must have reached her because the mockery faded from her expression, replaced by a wariness that was far more appropriate for what lay ahead.

“How bad will it be?” she asked.

“You never know with him.” He fitted his mask over his face, the familiar weight settling into place like armor as she secured her own.

They left the apartment in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken concerns. The elevator ascended smoothly, carrying them toward an evening neither was fully prepared for. Greyson found himself studying her reflection in the polished doors—the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her fingers flexed at her sides as if reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

She was afraid, he realized. Not of his father specifically, but of stepping into the unknown territory of Heart society. Of being so deep in enemy territory with no clear exit strategy, no clear allies. The recognition of her fear made her suddenly more human to him, more than just some emotionless assassin with murder in her eyes.

“Breathe,” he whispered as the elevator slowed. “Just follow my lead, and we’ll get through this.”

She didn’t answer, but he saw her shoulders drop slightly, saw her chest rise with a deep breath before she straightened again, steeling herself.

The doors slid open to reveal the antechamber of his father’s penthouse. Two housekeepers stood waiting, their own masks a silver, marking them as upper-level servants but still clearly beneath the family they served. Their posture was perfect, their greeting rehearsed to the syllable.

“Sir,” the older one intoned, dipping into a precise bow. “The President awaits you and your . . .” A fractional pause as she struggled for the right word for her. Prisoner? Bride? “. . . fiancée in the dining room.”

Greyson felt Shadera tense beside him, felt the shift in her weight that suggested she was calculating how quickly she could cross the space and neutralize the perceived threat. He placed a hand at the small of her back, the gesture both restraint and reassurance, his fingers brushing against her exposed skin.

He let it linger there, unsure if he did it for himself, or for her.

“Thank you, Quinn,” he said. “We’ll join him.”

The housekeeper’s eyes widened slightly at the use of her name, then she nodded, stepping aside to let them pass. Greyson guided Shadera forward with the lightest pressure against her back, feeling the heat of her skin against his fingers, the tension in her muscles as they approached the dining room archway.

“Remember,” he murmured, his lips barely moving beneath his mask. “Nothing he says is without purpose. Nothing he does is without calculation. Don’t react.”

Her only response was a slight nod and her throat working as she swallowed. Then the doors were opening, and they were stepping into the lion’s den, where Maximus Serel sat waiting like a predator with infinite patience, confident that sooner or later, everyone who entered his domain would bleed.

His father sat at the head of the table like a king holding court, his golden mask catching light from the chandelier overhead. His mother and sister on either side of him looking equally nervous. Greyson felt Shadera’s subtle hesitation beside him, a fractional pause that only he would notice, before she straightened her spine and followed him into the room.

“Ah, my son arrives.” Maximus’s voice cut through the silence, measured and cold.

Maximus’s gaze fixed on Shadera, taking in the dress, the boots, her mask. His silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable, a deliberate tactic Greyson had seen him employ countless times. Finally, he spoke.

“How fascinating.” Two words, dripping with disdain. “Please, sit.”

They took their places at the table, Greyson pulling out Shadera’s chair before seating himself between her and Lira.

Servants materialized from alcoves, silent and efficient as they poured wine and placed the first course. He watched Shadera from the corner of his eye, noting how she mirrored Lira’s movements, taking her cues on which utensils to use.

Smart. Adaptable. Dangerous.

“Your bride’s transformation is quite remarkable,” his father started, speaking as if Shadera was not sitting next to him. “One would almost forget she tried to put a bullet in your head no less than a week ago. Almost.”

Shadera’s hand tightened around her fork, and Greyson felt rather than saw her preparing a retort. He pressed his knee against hers beneath the table—a warning, a plea for caution.

“So, Miss Kael,” Maximus began, swirling wine in his glass. “I understand you’re quite accomplished in your field. Fourteen confirmed kills of Heart officials, if my intelligence is correct. Quite the résumé.”

Shadera’s knife paused above her plate. “It’s not, actually.” Her voice was cold, measured. “My numbers are much higher.”

Greyson tensed, but Maximus merely chuckled—a sound entirely devoid of humor. “A flaw in my system, I’ll have to investigate that.” He took a careful bite, chewed it thoroughly, then swallowed. “Tell me, how are you finding Heart hospitality compared to your accommodation in the Boundary?”

“It’s cleaner, I’ll admit,” Shadera replied casually. “The knives are sharper. The people, less so.”

Lira coughed quietly into her napkin, and Greyson caught the flash of what might have been amusement in her eyes. Maximus, however, didn’t react beyond a slight tilt of his head.

“Amusing,” he said, his tone suggesting it was anything but. “How do you think your lover is doing in your absence? Jameson Vine, I believe his name is?”

Greyson felt Shadera go perfectly still beside him, the name silencing her. He hadn’t known that name—hadn’t known there was someone specific in her life. The thought shouldn’t have bothered him. It did.

His father continued. “The Ghost is what they call him, isn’t it?”

Greyson’s stomach hollowed.

Ghost.

He hadn’t even considered the connection. He had never seen his face when they traded information, only ever received a name. Ghost—the rebel leader. His contact in the Boundary.

The tremor in his hand flared to life and he pushed his hand under the table to hide it as Shadera’s eyes slowly dragged toward his father.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Shadera said, but the lie was transparent, her voice too controlled, too careful.

“Come now.” Maximus set down his fork. “Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence.”

The servers returned, clearing plates silently. Greyson watched Shadera’s profile, saw the muscle in her jaw flex and release, flex and release. Her own hand had disappeared beneath the table, and he suspected it was now curled into a fist on her thigh.

He wanted to reach for her. To let her know he was there, that violence here, in this room, wouldn’t get them anywhere but the platform. But he stayed still as his heart began to rapidly accelerate.

“I’m curious,” Maximus continued as the second course was served, “how he will react when he learns you are the Executioner’s whore.”

The slur landed directly in the center of Greyson’s chest as if it were lighting a fuse. Rage ignited outward, searing through his veins as Shadera shifted forward in her seat beside him, preparing to lunge.

Greyson spoke before she could move.

“Show her some respect,” he said, each word edged with warning.

“Respect.” His father tasted the word. “Like the respect you have shown me by letting her parade around the Heart, bringing her to my table in that abomination?” He gestured to the mask.

“I wanted something that would honor both traditions,” Lira spoke up smoothly. “The Heart’s masking laws and Shadera’s background.”

Maximus’s eyes shifted to Lira, who met his gaze without flinching. “Her background,” Maximus repeated. “Please, Ms. Kael, do tell us about your background. I’m sure my wife would be fascinated to hear how the less fortunate manage.”

Elara’s mask turned toward Shadera, but she remained silent, her hands perfectly still on the table. Greyson had long ago stopped trying to interpret his mother’s silence—whether it was agreement, fear, or self-preservation.

“It’s difficult,” Shadera answered carefully. “Resources are limited.”

“By design.” Maximus nodded casually as if that fact wouldn’t enrage her. “Limited resources create dependence. Dependence creates control. Surely, as a Daggermouth, you understand the value of control?”

Greyson watched Shadera’s throat work as she swallowed. “I understand plenty. I understand that while the Boundary starves, while the Cardinal is worked like slaves so the elite don’t have to lift a finger, the Heart bathes in unnecessary luxury, in excess.”

Greyson sucked in a sharp breath. Don’t rise to it, he silently willed her. It’s what he wants.

“Ah, the typical Boundary perspective,” Maximus sighed. “Resources must be managed. Distributed according to contribution. What exactly does the Boundary contribute, beyond violence and discontent?”

“Contribution?” Shadera shot back. “You’ve created an artificial scarcity to—”

“I’ve created order from chaos,” Maximus cut her off, his voice hardening. “Before the Serel regime, do you know what New Found Haven was? Warring factions. Overpopulation. We brought stability.”

“You brought subjugation.”

Shadera’s fork clattered against her plate as she set it down too forcefully. Greyson saw his father’s eyes narrow—a predator sensing weakness. Greyson’s fork was in his hand and underneath the table before he realized he was reacting, lodging its tines into her thigh to stop her from provoking him further.

Her body went rigid, her breath catching, but she didn’t cry out. Her eyes flashed to his, murderous behind her mask. She fell silent as she reached down, pulled the fork from her flesh, and used it to take her next bite.

“Now,” his father started again. “Back to this mask. Do you understand the position you’ve put me in? Either I publicly support this flagrant disregard for Heart policy, or I admit I cannot control my own family.”

“We could never have that,” Lira mumbled under her breath, sarcasm thick.

“What did you say to me?” Maximus snarled at her.

“I thought you would like it,” Greyson spoke up quickly, redirecting his father’s rage. “An act of unity with my soon-to-be wife wearing my mark.”

The air in the room had shifted, a subtle but palpable change that even the servants seemed to notice, their movements becoming more cautious at the threshold between rooms.

Maximus’s hand tightened around his wineglass, and for a moment, Greyson thought it might shatter. “An interesting perspective. Though I wonder if that’s how the general public will perceive it.”

“Isn’t that what Lira is for?” Greyson asked carefully. “To ensure the public perceives exactly what you want them to?”

A flash of something—approval, perhaps, or simply acknowledgment—crossed his father’s eyes. “Indeed. Though I question whether this particular narrative can be shaped to my advantage.”

“It can,” Lira said. “I’ve already begun drafting the announcement. The mask will be presented as a symbol of Shadera’s new allegiance, her embrace of Heart traditions modified to honor her life in the Boundary. To show that the rings can be unified.”

Maximus considered this, head tilted slightly. Then he turned back to Shadera. “And what of your Boundary allegiances? What of your Daggermouth loyalties? Can they be so easily discarded for a pretty dress and a comfortable apartment?”

Shadera’s back straightened, her chin lifting. “Nothing about my current situation is comfortable.”

“No?” Maximus’s voice took on the deceptively gentle tone that had always preceded his worst cruelties when Greyson was a child. “Not even my son’s bed?”

“Father,” Greyson snapped, unable to contain himself any longer.

“Are you protecting this trash?” Maximus’s laugh was cold, cutting. “The scum that tried to murder you? Whose clan killed your brother, my son? How far you have fallen. How disappointingly weak you’ve become.”

“Treating people with basic dignity isn’t weakness,” Greyson countered, trying to rein in his hatred. “Something you’ve never understood.”

“You presume to tell me what I do and do not understand?” His father rose slightly in his chair, leaning forward. “You, who have accomplished nothing beyond what I have given you? You, who exist at my pleasure, who hold power only because I allow it?”

The familiar litany of inadequacy washed over Greyson like acid rain, burning in old scars, festering in wounds that had never truly healed. He felt himself shrinking beneath it, felt the child in him wanting to bow his head, to apologize, to do anything to make the criticism stop.

But he wasn’t a child anymore. He was the only person that could stand between his father and his mother, his sister, and now Shadera. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late.

“That’s not true,” Lira said, her voice cutting through the tension. “Greyson has earned everything he has. He’s respected for his own merits, not just because of your name.”

Greyson could hear his heart pounding, could feel the blood rising.

She shouldn’t have said that.

Maximus’s head snapped toward her, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, temperature dropping as if someone had opened a door to winter. “Did I ask for your opinion?”

Elara’s hand moved toward Lira’s across the table, a subtle protective gesture. “Maximus, perhaps we should—”

“Be silent,” Maximus cut her off, not even looking at his wife. His attention remained fixed on Lira. “You forget yourself. You forget who allowed you to have a voice at all.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Lira replied, and Greyson heard the slight tremor in her voice, the fear she was fighting to control. “I wish I could, Father, truly. But there is not a single day that I do not remember the things you’ve done to me or this family.”

Greyson’s eyes flashed toward her. The accusation in her voice, the pain. There was something deeper, something haunting in the way she said it, as if she was intimately aware of how cruel Maximus could be. Greyson’s stomach twisted at the thought of his father’s hands on her. He thought he’d kept her safe, had kept her out of the path of his father’s wrath.

The room went so quiet Greyson could hear the subtle tick of the antique clock on the mantelpiece, counting down the seconds to massacre. Shadera had gone still beside him, watching his family unravel before her.

“How dare you,” Maximus said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How dare you speak to me with such contempt in my house.”

One moment he was standing at the head of the table, the next he was at Lira’s side, his hand closing around her throat as he dragged her from her chair.

“Maximus!” Elara cried, reaching for her daughter.

Maximus’s hand shot out, his fist connecting with her skull as she rushed for Lira. A sharp wail left her lips as she stumbled to the ground and scurried away from him, clutching the side of her face.

“Stay in your place,” Maximus hissed down at her before turning his eyes back to Lira.

Greyson sprang to his feet, rage propelling him forward. He seethed, fists clenched, ready to strike, but Lira’s eyes—wide and desperate—found his over their father’s shoulder, silently begging him to stop. He stilled, his chest rising and falling frantically as Shadera slowly rose beside him.

Maximus forced Lira to her knees beside the table, his grip on her throat tightening. “You think because I’ve given you responsibilities, because I’ve allowed you some small authority, that you have the right to speak at my table?” His voice was almost gentle. “You are a woman with freedoms I let you keep because I’ve not yet required you to take your Vow. But you are still a woman. I can take those freedoms away at any second, I can sell you off to the highest bidder where you will become another subservient woman whose only purpose is to breed heirs, to take orders.”

“I have no freedom,” Lira spat up at him, the words strangled.

The sound of Maximus’s palm connecting with Lira’s face echoed through the dining room. Her head snapped to the side, the impact hard enough that Greyson heard the distinct crack of her mask against his father’s ring.

Something in Greyson broke. Some final tether of restraint, some last vestige of fear or respect or whatever the fuck had kept him in check all these years. He launched himself around the table, blind with rage, deaf to his mother’s sharp scream as she pleaded with him to stop.

“Greyson, don’t!” Shadera yelled as she tried to catch his arm.

But it was too late. It was already in motion.

He was halfway to his father when Maximus released Lira, letting her crumple to the floor as he drew the gun from inside his jacket. The movement was smooth, practiced—the action of a man who had anticipated this moment, who’d been waiting for it.

“One more step,” Maximus said calmly, “and I’ll add another scar to your collection.”

Greyson didn’t stop.

The shot rang out, the force of it spinning him half around as the bullet tore through the flesh of his shoulder. He caught himself against the edge of the table, blood already soaking through his jacket, dripping onto the pristine tablecloth. Pain bloomed through his veins but he barely registered it, the familiar sensation just one more data point in a lifetime of his father’s lessons.

“Is that the best you can do?” Greyson asked, his eyes dragging up to meet his father’s. “After everything else, you think a bullet scares me?”

“Predictable,” Maximus said, his voice coldly analytical. “Always so quick to defend the lesser sex, to defend lesser people. It’s why you’ll never be fit to lead.”

Greyson straightened, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep and broken inside him. It spilled out, harsh and genuine as he pressed his hand against the wound in his shoulder. “Is that what you think I care about? Fitness to lead? To be like you?”

He took a step forward in the silent room, then another, ignoring the gun still pointed at his chest.

“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing at the weapon. “Finish what you started. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Maximus’s eyes shifted behind his mask, a hint of uncertainty there as he reassessed his son. Maximus adjusted his aim, the barrel now pointing directly at Greyson’s heart. “You think I won’t?”

“I know you will,” Greyson replied, still advancing. “Eventually. It’s what you do—eliminate problems. Destroy anything that doesn’t conform to your vision. So do it. End the disappointment.”

Maximus’s finger tightened on the trigger, hesitating. For a moment, Greyson thought it might truly be the end. A strange calm washed over him at the prospect—not peace, exactly, but acceptance. Freedom, of a sort.

The same sensation he had felt when Shadera had pointed her gun at him. Except this time, it was laced with fear. Fear of leaving his family with this man, fear of leaving her with this man.

Then, in the next breath, Maximus pivoted, squatting down to the floor next to Elara, the gun now aimed at her head. “Perhaps I’ll start with your mother instead. Since you seem to value others’ lives above your own.”

The threat hung in the air, clear and unmistakable. Greyson went still, the calm draining from him as suddenly as it had appeared, replaced by cold, familiar panic. Not for himself but for the collateral damage his father never hesitated to inflict.

“That’s better,” Maximus said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “You see, son? Some lessons do stick, after all.”

For a heartbeat, the tableau held—Maximus with his gun against Elara’s temple, Lira still on the floor, Shadera standing now, waiting for permission to attack. Greyson could feel blood running down his arm, warm and steady, pooling at his fingertips.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice suppressing fury.

He moved toward Lira, positioning himself between her and their father. Shadera appeared at his side, her body tense, ready for action. He could feel the coiled violence in her, the mercenary calculating odds, measuring distances.

“You will do as I—” Maximus began.

“No,” Greyson cut him off, the single syllable carrying the weight of years of silent defiance. “Not tonight.”

He helped Lira to her feet, steadying her when she swayed. Her mask had cracked along one side, a thin line running from eye to cheek like a tear frozen in place. He kept his body between her and Maximus as he guided her toward Shadera.

In this moment, he realized that he trusted her. Not with his life, but with his sister’s. He knew somehow that she’d seen the violence of men, and she would protect Lira just as he would.

“If you walk out that door,” Maximus said, his voice like ice, “there will be consequences.”

Greyson turned back to look at him, at the man who had shaped his life through fear and pain, who had molded him into a weapon.

“There always are,” he replied. “You will get your Vow. You will destroy my life and I can swallow that. But I will not hesitate to kill you if you ever lay a hand on Lira again.” He paused, knowing the threat would cost him. But instead of leaving it, instead of walking out the door with the damage that’d already been done, he smiled at his father.

“A Serel doesn’t hesitate, right, Dad?”

He turned then, ushering Shadera and Lira toward the exit, his hand at Lira’s back as Shadera supported her.

“This isn’t over, Greyson,” his father called after them. “It’s barely begun.”

Greyson didn’t look back, didn’t slow his pace as they left the dining room, the evidence of his father’s violence marked in blood on his shirt and bruises already forming on Lira’s throat. Behind them, he heard the sound of glass shattering against a wall, his father’s rage finding its target after they were beyond his reach.

He couldn’t save his mother, he knew that. Knew that she would never betray his father. That Maximus would have put a bullet in her head before she took a step out of that room. His soul cracked at the thought, at the knowledge that she would be the one to receive his fury with no way out.

The truth of Maximus’s final words settled in Greyson’s gut like lead.

‘This isn’t over.’

Whatever game his father was playing, whatever trap he was setting—this dinner had been just one move on a board much larger than Greyson could see.

They were all in danger.

He jabbed the button for his floor with more force than necessary, leaving a smear of crimson on the polished metal. The elevator doors slid closed, sealing them in silence broken only by Lira’s short, panicked breaths that Greyson recognized all too well—the aftermath of their father’s attention.