Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

His lips did not leave her.

They stayed, tasting every bit of her essence, refusing to drag himself away. He was going to make this last, to make up for every year he had gone without the taste of her on his tongue. Her heels dug into his back as her thighs trembled around his head. Each gasp and moan she made drove him wild, feeding a primal need to pleasure her until she couldn't remember her own name.

“Callie,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling almost painfully as her second orgasm approached. “Oh fuck, I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmured against her slick flesh, replacing his tongue with his thumb so he could watch her face. “Give me another one, Li. Let me see you come apart again.”

Her eyes flew open, locking with his as her body tensed. The vulnerability in her gaze, the raw trust as she allowed herself to be completely undone before him—it nearly broke him. His cock throbbed as she cried out, her back bowing, her thighs clamping around his hand.

“That’s two,” he said, his voice rough as he crawled up her body. He captured her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

Lira’s hands fumbled with his belt, her movements urgent and clumsy with post orgasmic bliss. “Too many clothes,” she complained against his lips.

Callum chuckled, helping her remove his belt before standing to shed his pants and briefs. Her eyes widened as his erection came free, hard and straining toward her.

“See what you do to me?” he said, returning to the bed. “Five years, Lira. Five years of wanting you, of aching for you. Of never touching another woman.”

She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his length. The feel of her hand on him after so long nearly brought him to his knees. He groaned, his head falling back as she stroked him, her touch tentative at first, then more confident.

“I need you inside me,” she whispered, her voice dripping with desire. “Please, Callum.”

He gently removed her hand, pressing her back into the mattress. “Not yet,” he said, his lips finding her neck, trailing kisses down to her collarbone. “I promised you five, remember?”

Before she could protest, his mouth was on her breast again, his tongue circling her nipple as his fingers returned between her thighs. He worked her slowly this time, building her pleasure with patience, savoring each gasp and shiver.

When he felt her body clench around him, he shifted lower, replacing his fingers with his mouth. Her taste was even richer now, her arousal coating his tongue as he licked into her. He groaned against her, the vibration making her hips buck against him.

“Oh God,” she gasped, her nails biting crescents into his shoulders. “Callum, I-I’m going to—”

He redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly against her clit as he slid two fingers inside her, curling them to hit the spot that always made her scream. Her third orgasm crashed through her with such force no sound came out of her mouth as her lips parted in a silent scream, her body convulsing beneath him.

Callum didn’t stop, didn’t give her time to recover. He kept his mouth on her, his fingers moving inside her, relentless in his pursuit of her pleasure. Her fourth orgasm followed quickly on the heels of her third, a breathless, keening sound escaping her as her body tensed and released.

“Come here,” she said, breathlessly reaching for him, and he couldn’t resist her call if he tried.

He rose above her, his cock pulsing with need as he positioned himself at her entrance. He stared down at her, one hand stroking himself as the other dragged up her stomach, feeling every inch of her skin.

“I could look at you forever like this—”

“If you don’t fuck me right now, Callum Thane,” she interrupted, her voice a delicious mix of command and plea, “I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

He grinned at her, and Lira’s answering smile was so pure, so breathtaking, it healed every piece of his heart he’d broken when he’d walked away from her.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words still new, still precious on his tongue as he pushed into her slowly.

Callum watched her face for any sign of discomfort as he filled her, the sensation overwhelming—tight, wet heat enveloping him inch by inch, her body yielding to his in perfect surrender. He paused halfway, gritting his teeth against the urge to thrust fully into her. It had been so long, and she felt so perfect around him.

Lira sighed, her body arching into his as she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

“Fuck.” The word was a groan tearing from his throat as he sank completely into her. For a moment he remained perfectly still, closing his eyes to keep from ending it all too soon as she gasped into his neck.

Callum forced his eyes open as he began to rock into her, slow and deep, savoring each stroke. His forehead dropped to hers, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Her eyes remained open, locked with his—a connection more intimate than their joined bodies. In those dark blue depths, he saw everything he’d ever wanted.

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he murmured, brushing his lips against hers.

“Show me,” she whispered back, and Callum snapped his hips forward at the command.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails raking over his skin as he set a rhythm that had her panting beneath him. Each thrust built the pressure in his spine, the coiling heat low in his belly. But he held back, determined to bring her pleasure first, to watch her come apart in his arms.

He shifted his weight, changing the angle of his thrusts, and was rewarded with Lira’s sharp gasp. Her eyes widened, pupils blown with pleasure as he hit that perfect spot inside her.

“There,” she breathed, her voice catching. “Right there, don’t stop.”

Callum increased his pace, driving into her with controlled power, his muscles burning with the effort of holding back his own release. He slipped a hand between their bodies, finding her clit with practiced fingers, circling in time with his thrusts.

“More,” she gasped, her thighs tightening against him. “Please.”

“Come for me again,” he urged, his voice a low growl against her ear. “One more time, love. Let me feel you.”

He rolled them, settling her on top of him without breaking their connection. The new position let him see all of her—the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the way her hair fell around her shoulders like dark waters. She braced her hands on his chest, rising and falling at her own pace, taking her pleasure from him in a way that made his blood sing.

“You’re a goddess,” he breathed, hands gripping her hips to help guide her movements. “My goddess.”

The possessiveness in his voice should have frightened him, but it felt right. She was his now, as he was hers.

He had always been hers.

Callum watched, entranced as Lira rode him, her body moving in a rhythm that seemed to pulse through his entire being. She looked down at him, their eyes locking, and there was such an intensity in her gaze that he felt as though she was seeing right into his soul.

Her fingers dug into his chest as her movements grew faster, more urgent. The heat of her surrounded him, gripped him, dragging him closer to the point of no return with each thrust.

Callum felt his control fracturing as Lira moved above him, her pace relentless, drawing him toward an edge he’d been fighting to avoid. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh as he tried to slow her movements, to make this last.

“Not yet,” he groaned, but she only smiled down at him—a wicked, knowing expression that sent heat racing through his veins.

“Yes,” she breathed, rolling her hips in a way that made his vision blur. “It’s your turn to come undone for me, Callie.”

The words destroyed what remained of his restraint. He surged upward, capturing her mouth in a desperate kiss as his hips thrust up to meet hers. She gasped against his mouth, the sound vibrating through him as her inner walls began to flutter around his cock.

“That’s it,” he growled against her throat, feeling her body tensing. “Come with me, Lira. Now.”

Her fifth orgasm hit with devastating force. She cried out his name, her body clenching around him in waves that pulled his own release from him with violent intensity. The feeling of her coming undone around him prolonged his pleasure until he thought he might black out from the sheer intensity of it. He groaned into her shoulder, his hips jerking upward as he spilled inside her, the pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. Every muscle in his body went taut, then released in a rush that left him trembling beneath her.

His vision whited out as ecstasy scorched through his blood, burning away every thought, every sensation that wasn’t her. Wasn’t this.

They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and racing hearts. Callum's arms wrapped around her, holding her against his chest as though she might disappear if he loosened his grip. Her breath came in soft pants against his neck, each exhale sending shivers across his skin.

“Five,” she murmured after a moment, a note of satisfaction in her voice that made him chuckle.

“As promised.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her. “Though I’m nowhere near done with you.”

She lifted her head to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”

“Mm.” His hands traced lazy patterns on her back, mapping the curve of her spine. “We have years to make up for.”

The reminder of lost time sobered them both slightly. Lira’s expression grew serious as she studied his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“No more secrets,” she said softly. “No more protecting each other from the truth.”

“No more secrets,” he agreed, catching her hand and pressing his lips to her palm.

The tablet on his nightstand buzzed, shattering the moment. Callum’s body tensed—that particular alert meant urgent news from his network. He reached for it reluctantly, aware of Lira watching him with curious eyes.

The message made his blood run cold.

“What is it?” Lira asked, pushing herself up on one elbow.

He turned the screen toward her, watching her face pale as she read the encrypted message.

Executioner and Daggermouth taken into custody. President’s orders. Location unknown. Vow ceremony preparations continue as scheduled.

“No.” The word escaped Lira in a whisper. “We have to find them.”

Callum was already moving, pulling on his pants and dragging a shirt over his head. His mind raced through possibilities, contingencies, the network of informants he could activate. But finding prisoners the President wanted hidden would be nearly impossible, even with his resources. He reached for the gun he kept in the bedside drawer, checking the magazine then tucking it into his waistband.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice shifting into the cold command of someone preparing for war.

“Like hell,” she replied, sliding from the bed and reaching for her clothes. “I’m not hiding out in your bedroom.”

He wanted to argue, to insist she stay safely away from whatever violence came from this news. But the determined set of her jaw told him it would be useless. This was the new reality between them—no more protection, no more sheltering.

Callum strapped a second gun to his ankle and handed Lira a smaller pistol he kept for emergencies. Marcus’s face flashed behind his eyes as she took it from him and checked the safety and grip.

“You sure you know how to use that?” he asked.

She lifted a brow in his direction. “Did I not prove that this morning? Just give me a thigh holster, I need somewhere to hide this under my dress.”

He didn’t try to hide the smile that lifted the corners of his lips. Maybe she was more suited for his world after all. He pulled a holster out of the bottom drawer of the nightstand and handed it to her before turning to the door and heading for his surveillance equipment.

He paused at the threshold, looking back at her—his heart, his soul, everything that mattered. Callum knew the moment he took a step out of that room, everything would change.

The living room was now bathed in shadows, the security screens casting a blue glow over the furniture. Callum moved silently across the polished floor, every sense heightened. The chime sounded again from the tablet in his hand.

Meeting tonight. Wolf’s Head. 10pm.

He tilted his head at the message, at the timing of it. A rebel meeting the same night Greyson and Shadera were detained.

Someone else is feeding the Boundary information.

He shoved the device back into his pocket, setting his gun on his desk as he scoured the security footage of Haven Tower at double speed, looking for anything. Any sign he had missed, any clue that could tell him where Maximus had taken them.

“What do we do now?” Lira asked from the hallway’s opening, and Callum’s eyes shot up to see her not in her dress, but in the clothes he had kept for her here in silent prayer that she would someday wear them.

His heart convulsed at the sight. At the dream that had miraculously come true at the worst possible timing. He stared at her for a long second, the way the black pants hugged her curves, how her brown hair flowed over her shoulders spilling down the front of the grey knit sweater. The gun strapped snugly to the side of her thigh.

Callum cleared his throat, standing from his desk.

“We’re going to Wolf’s Head.”

Lira froze, looking at him with surprise. “The Daggermouth bar? They’ll kill me on sight.”

“Not if you’re with me.” He holstered his gun, then reached for a blade sitting on the desk’s surface and pushed it in beside his other weapons. “If Maximus thinks he can use the people we care about as pawns, he’s about to learn exactly what I’m capable of.”

Chapter twenty-eightWelcome To The Revolution

Jameson slipped through the narrow space between two derelict buildings, the shadows wrapping around him as they always did. A weight settled in his chest as he moved—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something darker that had been growing since he’d learned about the Vow.

The Boundary smelled of desperation tonight—the usual stench of waste and industrial runoff tainted with fear, with rage. He could feel it in the air, pressing against his skin, seeping through the cracks in the walls around him.

His fingers tightened around the gun holstered beneath his jacket, itching for release. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours since he’d stood in that blue lit room, watching Shadera choose sacrifice over escape. He had been angry at her for that, but now, after pacing and planning and destroying things in the privacy of his hideout, that anger had shifted into respect.

Something moved in the corner of his vision—a flash of reflected light from the end of the alley. Jameson froze, pressing himself against the wall as the mechanical hum of a vehicle grew louder. Veyra patrol. This far in the Boundary. This late.

This wasn’t scheduled.

He ducked behind a rusted dumpster, the sharp edge of corroded metal biting into his palm as he crouched low. The vehicle turned the corner, headlights cutting through the perpetual smog. Its silver hull gleamed obscenely against the backdrop of crumbling infrastructure and makeshift dwellings.

Three more vehicles followed, forming a small convoy that crawled through the narrow street. Jameson’s pulse quickened. Four vehicles meant at least thirty-two officers, possibly more. This wasn’t a routine patrol. This was a statement.

The lead vehicle’s loudspeaker crackled to life, its artificial voice echoing between the buildings. “Residents of the Boundary. By order of President Serel, a curfew is now in effect. Return to your dwellings immediately. Lethal force will be administered if you do not comply.”

The statement played again as the vehicles crawled forward, the sound blaring into the night.

Jameson watched as doors cracked open along the street. Not people fleeing inside as ordered, but emerging. First one, then three, then a dozen Boundary residents slipping out of buildings, faces hard with something beyond anger. They carried makeshift weapons—metal pipes ripped from walls, broken bottles, chunks of concrete. One man clutched a rusted machete that caught the patrol’s searchlight, sending a brief flash across the gathering crowd.

The vehicles slowed.

“Disperse immediately,” the synthetic voice commanded. “This is your only warning.”

The crowd didn’t listen. It grew, swelling from the shadows of doorways and alleys until nearly fifty people stood in the street. Their silence was more unnerving than shouting would have been—a concentrated, deliberate quiet that spoke of a decision already made.

Jameson recognized the signs. The Boundary was done being afraid.

The first bottle arced through the air, smashing against the lead vehicle’s windshield. The sound was like a starting gun. The crowd surged forward as one body, colliding with the Veyra convoy in a wave of fury. Metal pipes rang against armored hulls. Fists pounded on windows. Bodies pressed against doors, preventing them from opening.

The loudspeaker squawked again. “Disperse now or we will open fire! This is your—”

A concrete block crashed through the lead vehicle’s side window, cutting off the warning. Glass shattered, raining down on the street as the crowd roared in approval. Hands reached through the broken window, grabbing at the officers inside. The vehicle rocked as more bodies pressed against it, tipping it precariously onto two wheels before it crashed back down.

The door of the second vehicle burst open, and Veyra officers spilled out, weapons raised. Their black uniforms and reflective helmets made them look like insects among the drab colors of the Boundary. One fired a warning shot into the air. The crack of gunfire seemed to momentarily freeze the scene—the officers in their defensive stance, the crowd paused in their attack.

Then someone from the back of the crowd hurled another bottle. It struck an officer’s helmet, exploding in a shower of glass and liquid. The officer staggered, then steadied his weapon and fired directly into the crowd.

A woman fell, clutching her chest as blood bloomed across her shirt like an obscene flower.

The crowd’s roar became a howl.

Jameson moved. He sprinted out from behind the dumpster as the street erupted into chaos, his gun already raised. Veyra officers poured from the vehicles now, forming a defensive circle as they fired into the crowd. Bodies fell, but for every person who dropped, three more seemed to emerge from the shadows, throwing themselves at the officers with suicidal determination.

The nearest officer was separated from his unit, backing away as three men advanced on him with raised weapons. His rifle swung between them, panic evident in his jerky movements. His back hit the wall of a building as his helmet turned frantically, searching for escape. There was none. He raised his rifle and fired at the closest rebel.

Jameson was on him before the man’s body hit the ground. He moved like water through the chaos, slipping into the space between the officer and his remaining attackers. The officer’s head swiveled toward him, the reflective visor hiding the moment of recognition, the instant of fear as Jameson’s gun pressed against the gap between helmet and body armor.

Jameson pulled the trigger.

The sound was swallowed by the riot. Blood and brain matter spattered against the wall behind them as the officer crumpled. Jameson was already moving, targeting his next victim with the efficiency that had earned him his reputation.

A second officer broke from the main group, backing away from the crowd with his weapon raised. He fired twice, dropping a teenage boy who’d been charging him with a length of pipe. The boy fell, writhing, screaming. The officer kept firing, bullet after bullet punching into the fallen child until he stopped moving.

It was not protection. It was murder.

He would fucking die for that.

Rage rose in Jameson’s chest, a tide of burning acid that threatened to detonate. He circled behind the officer, closing the distance in three long strides. His arm snaked around the Veyra’s neck, twisting sharply, putting his full weight into the motion. The pop of vertebrae separating was the only thing Jameson heard as the cracking of bone vibrated through his forearm.

He let the body fall, already scanning for his next target. The street had dissolved into pure violence now, Boundary residents overwhelming the officers through sheer numbers despite the automatic weapons cutting through their ranks. Blood darkened the cracked concrete, turning puddles of chemical runoff into crimson pools that reflected the flashing lights of the patrol vehicles.

A third officer stumbled into Jameson’s path, helmet gone, face exposed and terrified. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the officer to register Jameson’s cold intent, just long enough for Jameson to see the plea forming on his lips.

He didn’t hesitate.

The knife slid from his sleeve into his palm, an extension of his arm as he lashed out in a single, fluid motion. The blade opened the officer’s throat from ear to ear, a perfect crimson smile blossoming beneath his chin. Blood sprayed across Jameson’s face, hot and metallic. The Veyra dropped to his knees, hands clutching futilely at his ruined throat, eyes still locked on Jameson’s as the light behind them dimmed and extinguished.

When Jameson finally looked up, when he tore his eyes away—he saw the carnage. Saw the Veyra bodies scattered among rebels. Saw as the patrol vehicles were set ablaze with Molotov cocktails.

Jameson stood in the center of it, chest heaving, blood dripping from his face, his hands, soaking into his clothes. The knife in his grip gleamed red and wet in the firelight.

Around him, the Boundary went silent as a mother pushed through the crowd. The bodies parted for her as she made her way toward Jameson, toward the body on the ground beside him.

Toward her son.

The mother’s scream was the most horrific thing he had ever heard. Her anguish echoed into the burning night as she dropped to her knees in the blood soaked mud and pulled her dead child into her arms.

Jameson’s heart twisted in his chest, a physical pain that radiated outward until his entire body ached with it. The sound cracked a deep vein into the foundation of his being, rage filling the void as he looked toward the Heart.

This was Maximus Serel’s doing. The President who sat in his tower, who ordered these patrols, who treated the Boundary like an infestation to be controlled rather than people to be governed.

The mother’s keening cut through the night air, raw and primal. It was a cry Jameson had heard too many times in his life—the sound of loss that couldn’t be measured, couldn’t be avenged, couldn’t be healed. Her tears mingled with her son’s blood as she rocked him back and forth, her fingers tracing his face as if trying to memorize it before death stole even that away.

The crowd stood silent, heads bowed, a momentary reverence for grief in the midst of violence. Some removed their hats, pressing them toward their chests as they knelt with the mother. One by one, the Boundary knelt, rage simmering just below the surface, waiting for the next spark to ignite it.

Then, from somewhere in the back of the crowd, a voice rose. Low but strong—the old anthem. The song that had started all of this, the song that so many had already died for, for the right to sing it. It was no longer the old forbidden anthem.

It was the song of the new rebellion.

A second voice joined, then a third. Soon dozens of voices swelled together, filling the street with a sound more dangerous than gunfire. His vision blurred as more voices joined, the music rolling through the street like thunder.

The mother looked up from her son’s body, tears streaking through the blood on her face, and added her broken voice to the chorus.

Jameson felt something break open inside him—a dam he’d built years ago to hold back the pain, the fear, the desperate hope that things could change. He’d become the Ghost, the smuggler, the rebel leader who forced himself to be unbreakable for the cause.

But standing here, surrounded by the people of the Boundary—bloodied but unbowed, grieving but defiant—he couldn’t maintain that distance. These were his people. This was his home.

The last notes of the anthem faded, leaving behind a silence charged with purpose. The crowd’s eyes turned to him, recognition dawning on their faces. They knew who he was. What he was.

Their protector.

A man stepped forward, his face weathered by years in the toxic air of the Boundary. “They’re coming for us all,” he said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. “Ain’t they?”

“Yes,” Jameson answered, unable to soften the truth. “The President is planning something. Something big.” He glanced at the burning patrol vehicles, the bodies scattered across the street. “And this—this is just the beginning.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Then we fight.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Jameson saw the determination in their faces, the readiness to throw themselves against the Heart’s oppression regardless of the cost. It would be a slaughter. They had pipes and bottles—the Heart had bombs.

“Not like this,” Jameson said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Not without a plan. Not without unity.”

He looked at each face in turn, committing them to memory—the elderly woman with her makeshift spear, the young couple clutching each other’s hands, the children watching from windows above. These were the people Shadera had sacrificed herself to protect. These were the lives hanging in the balance.

“Go home,” he told them, softening his tone. “Tend to your wounded. Mourn your dead. But be ready. When the time comes—and it will come soon—I’ll need all of you.”

They hesitated, the fire of rebellion still burning in their eyes.

“Trust me,” Jameson added, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I won’t let you fight alone.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Some carried away the injured, others gathered the dead with gentle hands. The mother remained kneeling beside her son, her tears now silent, her grief beyond words.

Jameson knelt beside her, ignoring the blood soaking into his pants. He placed a hand on her cheek, feeling her body shake with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words woefully inadequate.

She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shimmering with tears. Something in her gaze had hardened, crystallized into resolve.

“Make them pay,” she whispered.

Jameson nodded once, a solemn vow. Then he rose, gesturing to two men standing nearby. They came quickly.

“Help her take her son home,” he started, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “And make sure she does not bury her child alone.”

Their answer was a nod.

“Thank you,” Jameson whispered, then turned away just in time to hide the tears that began to cut through the blood on his face.

He would keep that promise to her. He would make them pay.

Every single leader of the Heart.

Shadera woke to a fist against her jaw, red cord tying her to a chair bolted to the ground. Another fist connected with the other side of her face before she could blink vision back into her eyes. Somewhere behind her she could hear Greyson screaming. She thought she heard him screaming for her but before his words registered, a baton found her temple and consciousness was knocked out of her body again.

Jameson’s path to Wolf’s Head was clear now, the Boundary streets emptying as news of the clash spread and people retreated to safety. He didn’t bother cleaning his hands or face of the blood as he approached the Daggermouth headquarters. Instead, he would let it speak for him.

He could hear the familiar sounds of the bar from outside the establishment—glasses clinking, low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. All of it normal, despite the world burning outside.

He shouldered through the door and conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of him. The silence spread like ripples until the entire room had fallen quiet.

Jameson took another step forward, his boots leaving bloody prints on the cracked floor. Dozens of eyes locked on him—assassins, informants, rebels, all momentarily united in their assessment of the man before them. Slowly, bodies began to rise from their chairs, their glasses raised in silent tribute, acknowledging what he had done tonight.

Then, one by one, fists began to beat on tables, a steady drumming that saturated the air.

War had been declared tonight. Not with speeches or proclamations, but with blood on concrete and fire in the streets.

Jaeger stood to greet him, rising from his usual table in the corner like a specter from the shadows. His weathered face betrayed nothing, but his eyes—those cold gray eyes that had seen more violence than Jameson would ever know—gleamed with pride.

“Welcome to the revolution, brother,” Jaeger said, hand stretching toward Jameson. He took it, wrapping is bloody fingers around Jaeger’s.

Jameson said nothing as he shook it. Words felt inadequate, trivial against the weight of what he’d just done, what he was prepared to do. The bartender set a full bottle of whiskey before him instead of the usual glass. Jameson uncorked it, took a long pull directly from the neck, and let the burn cleanse the taste of blood from his mouth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was raw, stripped of everything but his anger. “They sent a convoy into the Boundary.”

Jaeger nodded once, sharply. “I know, my men saw you handle it.”

“When do we move?”

“Soon.” Jaeger gestured to the table where several of his men stood looking over the maps and diagrams spread out on its surface. “Sit.”

Jameson ignored the command and instead took another long pull as the door opened at his back. He turned, watching weapons appear across the room as if by magic—guns, knives, garrotes all trained on the newcomer.

Captain Mikel stepped into the bar, his face grim but unsurprised by the reception. His Veyra uniform was spotless, a stark contrast to the blood covering Jameson.