Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“Time to move,” Jaeger said on the tail of his words. He turned to the team, issuing quick, precise orders. “Breach, Sniper, secure the perimeter. Comms, monitor Veyra channels for any mention of our presence. Scout, Medic, Trace, establish exit routes in case the primary is compromised.”

He turned to Jameson last. “Ghost, you retrieve Shade. In and out. No engagement with anyone else.”

“And if I can’t avoid him?” Jameson asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Then you do what’s necessary,” Jaeger replied. “But remember—this is an extraction, not an assassination. Your priority is Shade. Nothing else matters.”

They exited the vehicle in pairs, movements synchronized to appear as normal patrol activity to any watching eyes. Jameson followed Jaeger into the shadows between buildings, the bright lights of the Entertainment District beckoning ahead.

“Stay on comms,” Jaeger instructed as they prepared to separate. “Report in every ten minutes. If something goes wrong—”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Jameson cut him off.

Jaeger’s helmet tilted, the expressionless faceplate somehow conveying disapproval. “If something goes wrong,” he repeated, “the fallback point is the east end maintenance tunnel. We wait thirty minutes, then we go—with or without you both.”

The harsh reality of their situation settled in Jameson’s gut. They were outnumbered, in enemy territory, working with borrowed time and stolen identities. The odds of all of them making it out alive were deteriorating quickly.

“Understood,” Jameson said.

“Then go get our girl,” Jaeger replied, gripping Jameson’s shoulder briefly before melting into the shadows.

Jameson turned toward the pulsing lights of Club Thane, each step taking him closer to Shadera. The Veyra uniform felt heavier with each stride, the weight of his disguise, his mission, his fear thrumming through his blood.

He would find her. He would bring her home. And nothing in the Heart would stop him.

The club was alive. Each beat of music traveled through Shadera’s body as if searching for something to awaken. She sat at the bar, nursing her fifth drink, the alcohol dulling the flame in her veins, the awareness she had of Greyson’s eyes on her even from where he stood a few paces away. Behind her mask, she watched the elite dance and laugh and drink, their expensive clothes and ornate masks creating a sea of wealth that could drown her. No one approached her, no one dared.

The Executioner’s future bride was not to be touched, even here, in this supposed sanctuary of pleasure.

The liquor was pure here, even better than what she indulged in at Greyson’s apartment. Even their vices were superior, carefully crafted and regulated while the rings made do with whatever poisonous concoctions they could distill from industrial waste. Shadera knocked back the remainder of her glass, the burn traveling down her throat as she turned back to face the bar.

Every few seconds, her eyes swept the room, cataloging exits and entrances, counting guards, measuring distances. Habits that had kept her alive in the Boundary, now automatic as breathing. Two main exits, both heavily monitored. Four emergency doors with alarm systems. Twenty-three displayed security personnel positioned throughout the club, all in black with subtle earpieces that betrayed their purpose. Fifteen more security dressed like patrons. Six cameras visible in the main space, likely dozens more hidden.

And not a single clear path to freedom.

The bartender—a willowy woman with a simple silver mask that marked her as service class—kept her distance, approaching only when Shadera’s glass emptied. The other patrons did the same, creating a bubble of isolation around her that felt both protective and suffocating.

“Try to have a little fun.” Greyson’s voice materialized behind her as his arm swept over her shoulder and set another glass in front of her. “You look like you’re planning a massacre rather than enjoying a night out.”

She didn’t bother looking up at him. “Maybe I am.”

“Targeting anyone in particular?” There was a lightness in his tone she wasn’t used to hearing, almost teasing. He slipped to her side and leaned casually against the bar.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Shadera replied, taking the fresh drink. “But you’re definitely in the fucking running.”

A sound escaped him—a laugh. A genuine laugh. The cadence of it was so warm Shadera finally turned to look up at him. His mask seemed less menacing in this lighting, its shadows softened by the club’s ambient glow. His posture had changed too, some of the rigidness in his shoulders loosening.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, surprise evident in her voice.

Greyson tilted his head. “If I am?”

“Then good thing you have a driver, because I am nowhere near sober.”

There it was again. That fucking laugh.

“I’m going to go find Callum,” he said, leaning closer so she could hear him over the music. “He’s either in his office or his apartment over the club. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

Shadera raised a brow even though he couldn’t see it. “I think I can handle this gaggle of drunken idiots.”

His hand ran down her bare back as he leaned across the bar and she froze. He didn’t even seem to notice he was touching her, like this was something he always did, something natural between them. She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to lean into his touch, not to bask in the warmth his fingers sent trickling up her spine.

Greyson’s other hand came back over the bar with a bottle in tow, and he set it down in front of her. “The bartender seems to be scared of you, and I did promise you could drink to your heart’s content.”

His hand disappeared from her back and she thanked God he moved away from her before she could protest the loss.

New rule after tonight, she thought to herself, as she downed the liquid in her glass then unscrewed the bottle. She was no longer allowed to drink around Greyson Serel.

She watched as he strode away from her, threading through the crowd with ease. The bodies parted for him, recognition and fear creating a path as he headed for the staircase in the back of the room. Before he could ascend, a woman materialized from the crowd, intercepting him with the confidence of someone who knew they belonged in his orbit.

Even from a distance with liquor hazed eyes, Shadera could tell she was beautiful. Her dress—deep blue and cut so low in the front it bordered on scandalous—clung to a perfect figure, the shimmering fabric catching light with every movement. Her mask was a masterpiece of silver filigree and sapphires, framing eyes that seemed to laugh even from across the room.

She stepped directly into Greyson’s path, one hand landing on his chest with familiarity. Her head tilted up toward him. Whatever she said made Greyson pause, his posture shifting subtly as he replied.

The woman’s hand slid from his chest to his shoulder, then around to the back of his neck, the touch lingering, possessive. She leaned closer, her body curving toward his like a flower seeking the sun. There was history in that gesture, in the way she claimed his space like she owned it.

Shadera’s grip tightened around the bottle, an unwelcome heat flaring in her chest. It wasn’t jealousy—it couldn’t be jealousy. That would require caring, and she couldn’t give less of a fuck who Greyson touched or who touched him.

Yet her eyes remained fixed on them, watching as the woman’s fingers slid over his body, tracing patterns on Greyson’s arm, her laughter carrying faintly above the music. Greyson hadn’t stepped away, hadn’t created distance. But he hadn’t touched her back either, hadn’t leaned toward her.

Then his head turned, eyes finding Shadera’s through the crowd. Shadera quickly looked away, bringing the bottle to her lips and taking a large swallow.

When she risked another glance, the woman had linked her hand through Greyson’s and was leading him up the stairs. They disappeared around the curve of the staircase and her teeth clenched.

“Who was that woman?” she asked, leaning over the bar so the woman behind it could hear her without yelling? “The one with the Executioner.”

The bartender didn’t bother looking up at her as she crushed a lemon for a drink. “Maya, she’s a regular.”

“Maya,” Shadera muttered under her breath as she turned back to the crowd, the name bitter on her tongue. She took another drink. “A regular. Of course.”

Shadera pushed away from the bar, bottle in hand, and turned toward the dance floor. The crowd seemed to pulse with the music, a living entity of masked faces and swaying bodies. She could disappear into it, could find someone for herself, someone to help her forget, if only for a moment, the nightmare that her life had become.

She took two steps toward the dance floor when a hand closed around her upper arm, jerking her backward with unexpected force. She twisted, swaying on her feet, alcohol sloshing over her hand as she prepared to unleash hell.

But the words died in her throat, the liquor making her tongue heavy as she found herself staring at the reflective faceplate of a Veyra officer. Her heart stuttered, then raced. The Veyra weren’t supposed to be in here. Greyson told her his father’s men weren’t allowed in Callum’s clubs.

Before she could speak, the officer pulled her away from the crowd, toward a door marked with a small red light—an anti-scan room, where the Heart elite could conduct business without fear of surveillance. She jerked against his grip, but his fingers only tightened, digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise.

“Let go of me,” she hissed as the music swelled, drowning her voice beneath its relentless beat.

She didn’t have any weapons. Didn’t have anything to protect herself. She’d have to fight her way out of this.

No one around them seemed to notice or care. To them, she was just another patron being escorted away by security. No one would intervene, not against a Veyra officer, not for a woman wearing a skull mask that marked her as something outside their carefully ordered world.

The officer shoved her through the door into the anti-scan room, following immediately after. The door closed behind them with a pneumatic hiss, sealing out the noise of the club and plunging them into relative quiet. The room was large, with soundproofed walls and a single recessed light that cast everything in a dim blue glow.

Shadera spun to face him, fury replacing fear. She wasn’t going quietly, wasn’t going to be another victim of the Veyra’s brutality against women. If he wanted to take her, he’d have to kill her.

“Touch me again and I’ll tear your fucking throat out,” she snarled, dropping into a fighting stance.

The officer tilted his head, regarding her through that expressionless faceplate. He chuckled—a low, familiar sound that stopped her heart in her chest.

Then, the next thing she heard was Jameson’s voice.

“Did you miss me?”

Chapter twenty-fourJameson Fucking Vine

Shadera’s world narrowed at the sound of those four words. A voice. His voice. The liquor in her veins turned electric as she stared at the reflective faceplate, her own distorted reflection looking back at her. Time stretched and compressed around her as her mind struggled to process what her heart already knew. Jameson was here. In the Heart. Inside the beast’s den.

Something cracked inside Shadera, a dam breaking to release a flood of emotion so powerful she could barely breathe through it as Jameson pulled the helmet from his head. She launched herself at him without conscious thought, arms wrapping around his neck as her body collided with his. He caught her, arms encircling her waist and lifting her off her feet in a crushing embrace against the unfamiliar hardness of the Veyra armor. She didn’t care. It was him underneath.

It was Jameson.

“You’re here,” she gasped against his neck, inhaling his scent. “You fucking idiot, you’re actually here.”

His arms tightened around her, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head as a laugh slipped from his lungs. “Did you think I wouldn’t come for you?”

Shadera pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands framing his jaw as if to confirm he was real, solid, present. That this wasn’t some alcohol induced hallucination. His eyes searched hers through her mask, drinking her in with equal relief.

“How?” she asked, still not quite believing. “How are you here in this uniform? The checkpoints, the security—”

“Long story,” Jameson said, his thumbs tracing circles on her lower back, as if he couldn’t stop touching her now that she was in his arms. “I’ll tell you once we’re out of here. We don’t have much time.”

Reality crashed back with his words. They were still in the Heart, still surrounded by enemies, still in imminent danger. The joy of seeing him was immediately tempered by fear for his safety.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice tightening. “Did they—did he—”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off, though the word tasted like a lie. “You need to leave,” she said, letting her boots fall to the floor and pulling back further. Her hands remained on his shoulders, unwilling to break contact completely. “If they catch you, if Greyson sees you—”

“Greyson?” Jameson’s hands stilled on her waist, his fingers tightening. “You’re on a first name basis with the Executioner now?”

There was something in his tone she couldn’t quite place—jealousy, maybe, or betrayal. She didn’t have time to analyze it.

She ignored the question, stepping back from his touch. The loss of contact felt like stepping from the warmth of home into a winter morning. “You need to get out. They will catch you if—”

“They won’t.” His voice held absolute certainty. “We have a way out. A good one. But we need to move now.”

Shadera’s mind raced, cataloging possibilities, risks, variables. “There are at least thirty security personnel in the club. More outside. Veyra patrols in the streets. Checkpoints at every sector.”

“We have a plan,” Jameson insisted, reaching into a compartment in his bag to withdraw a small bundle of black fabric and a helmet. “But you need to change. Now.”

He unfolded it, revealing another Veyra uniform, sized for her. Shadera stared at it, understanding dawning with cold clarity. They were going to walk out as Veyra officers, hiding in plain sight, using the Heart’s own authority against it.

It was fucking brilliant.

“Jaeger’s here?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Only Jaeger would attempt something this audacious.

Jameson nodded. “And six others. But our window is closing. We need to go.”

Shadera glanced toward the door, thinking of Greyson somewhere upstairs, unaware that his prisoner was about to slip through his fingers. Something complicated twisted in her chest—not quite guilt, not quite relief, but some emotion that defied simple categorization.

“Shade.” Jameson’s voice softened, his hands coming up to frame her face, fingers gentle against the edges of her mask. “Come home. Please come home.”

The words undid her. Whatever confusion she felt about Greyson, whatever complex emotions had developed during her time with him, they paled beside the pleading she saw looking into Jameson’s eyes.

“Get me out of here,” she said, reaching for the uniform.

The smile that spread across Jameson’s face was one of relief, of a man looking into the eyes of a woman he feared he would never see again.

His smile disappeared.

The door behind them hissed open, and her eyes locked on to that bright blue gaze and widened. Shadera froze, her body turning to stone.

Greyson stood framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space. The mask stared back at her, black and expressionless. But she knew the face beneath it now, knew the look in those eyes that watched her through those hollow sockets.

He stepped into the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss, sealing them in, the outside world once again muffled and distant. Greyson leaned against the frame casually, but Shadera could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his body coiled like a spring about to release.

Jameson’s hand slid to Shadera’s waist, pulling her behind him as he slowly turned to face Greyson, his hand dropping to the weapon at his side. The Veyra uniform he wore made the standoff even more surreal—two men in the garb of the Heart’s enforcers, facing each other across an invisible line with Shadera caught in the middle.

The room began to shrink around her, the walls creeping inward with each breath. The air felt thicker, heavier in her lungs as her heart rate doubled. The single holo-lamp cast their shadows against the wall—three dark silhouettes stretched and distorted, overlapping and separating as they moved. Predators circling each other in a cage too small to contain them all.

Shadera’s eyes darted around, cataloging the space with growing desperation. Soundproofed walls. No windows. One door. No escape route. The alcohol in her system, which had felt warm and comforting just minutes before, now churned in her stomach, making her lightheaded. The room was designed for privacy, for secret conversations and clandestine interactions. Now it felt like a tomb.

A deep, menacing chuckle left Greyson’s lungs and the sound crawled over Shadera’s skin like ice, raising goosebumps in its wake. She’d heard that laugh before—in his apartment after she’d tried to kill him, last night when his father had shot him. It was the sound he made when he was at his most unpredictable, when the careful control he maintained began to slip.

Greyson’s head tilted, the movement predatory, calculating, as his eyes traveled from Jameson’s face down to where his hands still gripped Shadera’s arms.

“Jameson fucking Vine. I believe your hands are on my wife.”

The claim set fire to her nerves.

She watched Greyson’s jaw tighten at the edge of his mask, saw his hands flex at his sides, fingers curling into half fists before stretching out again just inches above his weapon. The gesture was small but loaded with violence. She knew him well enough now to recognize the restraint it cost him, the control he was exerting not to draw.

“Greyson—” she started, trying to keep him calm.

“Don’t.” The single word cut through the air like a blade. “Don’t say another word.”

The command ignited her hate.

“I’m not your fucking wife,” she snapped back, stepping out from behind Jameson’s protective stance. “I will never be your property.”

The words came out harder than she’d intended, razor edged and absolute. She saw Greyson’s head tilt further, a small, familiar movement that told her she’d struck a nerve. Good. Let him feel something of what she felt—this suffocating trap closing around her.

Jameson’s body tensed against hers. He turned slightly, confusion evident in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way his gaze darted between her and Greyson.

“What’s he talking about?” The question was directed at her, but his eyes remained fixed on Greyson, tracking every minute shift in posture, every potential signal of attack.

Before she could answer, Greyson pushed away from the doorframe, taking a single step into the room. The movement was too calm, almost languid, but Shadera recognized the deadly intent beneath the relaxed facade.

“Do you really not recognize me?” Greyson asked, something odd entering his tone—a note that could have been amusement or contempt or both.

Jameson’s response came immediately. “Obviously I fucking do. The Executioner.” His voice hardened on the last word, loaded with all the hatred, all the suffering that title had inflicted on the rings.

“Interesting.” Greyson’s head nodded subtly. “I thought my voice or at least presence would be more memorable.”

Shadera stepped forward suddenly, her voice shifting from anger to something closer to pleading.

“Please,” she said, looking directly at Greyson, “let us go. I know you don’t want to keep me prisoner. I know you’re not like your father.” The words felt too intimate, too revealing of the complicated understanding that had developed between them, but she kept speaking. “You don’t have to do this.”

Greyson remained perfectly still, his eyes fixed on hers. Something shifted in their depths, a flicker of emotion quickly suppressed.

“You made your choice, Shadera,” he finally said. “When you took my contract, when you agreed to my father’s terms, you set events in motion that cannot be undone.”

“What terms?” Jameson demanded, his voice tight with growing anger. “What the fuck is he talking about, Shade?”

“Three days,” Greyson answered. “In three days, we stand on the execution platform and take the Vow before all of New Found Haven.” His gaze moved to Jameson. “Every screen in every ring will broadcast it. The Daggermouth and the Executioner, united in holy matrimony.”

Jameson’s laugh was harsh, disbelieving. “That will never happen. The rings know what she did. The rebels are fighting with her, for her, for what happened in the prison.”

Shadera turned to him, confusion rippling through her. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything in that prison except get people killed.”

Jameson turned toward her, his brow furrowing. “You really don’t know?” He shook his head. “Your assassination attempt has spread through the rings like wildfire.”

Her throat constricted.

“Figures the Heart wouldn’t let you see what’s happening in the rings,” Jameson spat toward Greyson. “The rebels are singing the anthem, everyone in the rings.” His voice softened with something like pride. “It’s become the song of the rebellion. They’re looking to you as a symbol, Shade. The Daggermouth that took a stand against the Heart.”

“I don’t want that,” she said immediately, the words tearing from her throat. “I don’t want to be a symbol. I just want to go home.”

She wasn’t a fucking symbol. She was a mercenary, a killer for hire—not a hero, not a leader, not some face of a failing rebellion.

“I can’t let you leave,” Greyson said, his voice holding a twinge of apology.

“Can’t or won’t?” Jameson challenged, taking a step closer to Greyson. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks like a man who enjoys having a prisoner to play with.”

Shadera saw Greyson’s shoulders tense, saw his hands finally form fists at his sides. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all warmth.

“I can’t.” The words seemed to cost Greyson something, dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. “If she leaves, if she doesn’t take the Vow, people die. People I—” He stopped, recalibrating. “People who have done nothing to deserve it.”

“Who?” Jameson demanded.

“Callum. My sister.” Greyson’s eyes found Shadera’s again. “You know they’re innocent in this.”

“No one in the Heart is innocent,” Shadera hissed despite the images rising in the back of her mind, the knowledge of the President’s brutality.

“So you’ll keep her prisoner to protect them?” Jameson’s voice dripped with contempt.

“Yes.” Greyson didn’t flinch from the accusation. “I will keep her to protect them. I will do whatever is necessary to keep them alive.” A pause, weighted with something unspoken. “Why don’t you tell him what will happen to him and the rings if you leave?”

The question landed like a grenade between them. Jameson went still, his eyes finding Shadera’s with a question in them.

“He knows,” she said quietly. “Maximus has been watching you. He knows your location, the rebel headquarters, the clinics.” The words tasted like poison on her tongue. “He’s had drones following you since the moment I left. He has bombs, Jay. If I don’t comply, he’ll drop them. Starting with you.”

Something seemed to click in the expression that formed on Jameson’s face, like the last piece of some puzzle he’d been missing suddenly fell into place. The look quickly shifted to fury. “And you believe him? You think the Heart would risk bombing the rings? They need us. They need our labor, our—”

“He doesn’t care,” Shadera cut him off. “Maximus is losing control. He’d burn it all down to maintain power.”

The radio on Jameson’s belt crackled to life, Jaeger’s voice cutting through the tension. “Ghost, report. What’s your status? We’re running out of time.”

Greyson’s body went alert, his attention sharpening on the radio. “Where is he?” The question was a demand, edged with pure hatred. “Where is Jaeger?”

Jameson’s hand moved to the radio, silencing it. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Where is he?” Greyson repeated, taking another step forward until the two men were separated by inches.

“What’s the matter, Executioner?” Jameson taunted. “Afraid the Wolf might send another Daggermouth for you?”

Shadera sucked in a sharp breath of the charged air. The holo-lamp flickered once, casting Greyson’s mask in sharp relief and for a moment, his mask seemed to grin in the blue-tinged light. She’d never feared Greyson, not really—not even with all his threats and promises. But now, seeing him and Jameson in the same space, seeing the way they measured each other, calculated weaknesses, planned attacks—now she was afraid.

Not of what Greyson might do to her, but of what these two men might do to each other.

“Tell me where he is,” Greyson insisted, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

“Go fuck yourself,” Jameson replied, not backing down an inch.

Shadera moved before she could reconsider, pushing between the two men, her hands against their chests, forcing them apart.

“Stop it,” she barked. “Both of you.”

The radio crackled again, more urgent this time. “Ghost, extraction window closing. Thirty minutes until rendezvous.”

Jameson’s eyes dropped to hers. “We need to go. Now.”

Greyson’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist with careful but immovable pressure. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“The hell she isn’t,” Jameson growled, reaching for her other arm.

Shadera found herself literally caught between them, each holding one of her arms, neither willing to release her. The situation would have been fucking absurd if it weren’t so dangerous.

“I’m not either of your fucking property,” she snapped at both of them, yanking her arms free. “I just need to fucking think.”

“There’s nothing to think about. We’re leaving,” Jameson argued.

“She’s right, I don’t own her,” Greyson started quietly, “but I do control what happens to you and your little rebellion.”

Shadera’s eyes shot to Greyson then flickered to Jameson. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Understanding dawned slowly in Jameson’s eyes, realization spreading across his features like a stain. Greyson pressed his advantage, ignoring her question.

“Who did you think was smuggling contraband into the rings with a Serel serial number?” he asked, his voice laced with dark amusement. “The medicine for your clinics, the vaccines for the children, the antibiotics that keep your people alive—where did you think they came from?”

Shadera’s eyes widened at the revelation, her body tensing, oxygen catching in her lungs. His words echoed in her head and suddenly became clear.

‘There are things I can do from this position that I couldn’t do from a grave.’

All this time. All this time he had been working both sides of the conflict, had been helping the rings.

Her mind began to spiral as she frantically put together the pieces, replayed everything he had ever said to her, everything she’d ever seen him do.

“You’re lying,” Jameson said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.

“Am I?” Greyson countered. “The serial numbers all begin with SIG02. Serel Industries, my initial, second son. My personal division.”

Shadera watched Jameson’s posture shift as the truth sank in. She could almost see his mind racing as fast as hers, recalculating risks, reassessing the man before him.

“If you want that medicine to continue flowing into the rings,” Greyson continued, “you will leave now, without Shadera. According to Jaeger’s timeline, you have twenty minutes to get out of the Heart alive. I suggest you get moving.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Shadera looked between the two men, her mind reeling. If what Greyson said was true, if he’d been sending medicine to the rings all this time, then he wasn’t entirely the monster Jameson believed him to be, that she’d believed him to be. But he was still the Executioner. Still Maximus’s son.

“I’m staying,” she said finally, making the decision for Jameson so he wouldn’t feel the guilt of choosing the rings over her. He would choose them, she knew that. Knew that at the end of the day, no matter how much he cared for her, he would not risk thousands of innocents just to keep her alive, now that he knew the consequences. “We can’t risk the rings getting bombed. They need the medicine. I’ll find another way out.”

“With him?” Jameson asked incredulously. “With the fucking Executioner?”

Shadera glanced at Greyson, studying the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he stood perfectly still, waiting for her response. She turned back to Jameson.

“Yes,” she confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt. “You might not understand this or believe me because you haven’t seen the things I’ve seen. But we are both trapped in this. Greyson and I have to find a way out of this together if we want to save the most lives.”

Jameson was silent for a long moment, his face twisting with emotion. The clenched jaw, the furrow between his brows, the mix of anger and fear in his eyes. She knew his face better than she knew her own.

“Get out,” Jameson said finally, turning to Greyson. “I need a minute with her. Alone.”

Greyson’s posture stiffened. “Fuck no. I will—”

“Please,” Shadera interrupted, looking directly at him. “I won’t leave, but I need to say goodbye.”

She watched the internal struggle play out in Greyson’s body language—the tension in his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he considered. Finally, he nodded once, sharply.

“Three minutes,” he conceded, moving toward the door. “Then I’m coming back in, whether you’re done or not.”

Jameson watched Greyson exit before turning back to Shadera. For a moment, they stood frozen in the blue tinged light, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between them like a physical force. Shadera could see the raw emotion he let bleed free now—anger, fear, pain.