He began with her shirt, slipping the blade of the scissors under the hem and cutting upward in a slow, deliberate motion. The fabric parted easily, revealing inches of skin mottled with bruises—some fresh, some already beginning to heal. Blood pooled underneath her skin that threatened internal bleeding coming from somewhere in her abdomen. But it was what he saw beneath the injuries that forced the oxygen from his lungs.

Scars. Dozens of them. Old and silvered with time, crisscrossing her body in a chaotic pattern that spoke of years of violence. A knife wound just below her ribs, puckered and raised. A burn that covered her left side, the skin mottled and uneven. Bullet wounds. So many bullet wounds.

Her body was a battlefield, a record of survival written in scar tissue and damaged flesh.

Greyson’s fingers stilled on the scissors, his throat tightening. These were the evidence of a life lived in brutality, of pain endured and overcome time and again. How had he never noticed? How had he been so blind to the story her body told?

He’d seen some of the scars before, in that black, backless dress, but somehow, it hadn’t fully registered. Somehow this close, with nothing to cover her, he was forced to truly understand the violence that her body had seen.

He wanted to run his fingers across their ridges, let his lips trace the outlines of the tattoos inked between them.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the running water.

She was wrong. She was so fucking wrong.

He had never seen anything so heartbreaking, so beautiful and horrifying at once.

He continued cutting, removing her shirt piece by careful piece to avoid disturbing her injuries. The fabric had adhered to some of her wounds, and he had to wet it with a washcloth to prevent reopening them as he worked. She remained still throughout, only the occasional sharp intake of breath betraying the agony each movement caused her.

When her torso was completely bare, Greyson had to clench his jaw to keep from cursing aloud. The unnatural depression on her left side confirmed what he’d suspected—at least two breaks, possibly more. Precise injury, designed to cause maximum pain without endangering vital organs. His father’s men knew exactly what they were doing. How to hurt without killing. How to break without destroying.

He moved to her pants next, cutting from ankle to waist in two long lines that allowed the fabric to fall away without her having to stand. More bruises revealed themselves, more tattoos, more scars—a particularly vicious one that ran the length of her thigh, another that curved around her knee. The story of her life continuing down her legs, a narrative of pain and survival that made his own scars feel insignificant in comparison.

When he’d finished, she sat before him naked and shivering. Despite her injuries, despite the vulnerability of her position, she met his eyes and held his gaze with a dignity that made his chest ache. This was Shadera—the real Shadera, stripped of masks and defenses, of bravado and pride. This was the woman who’d survived horrors he could only imagine, who’d been shaped by pain as he’d been, forged in the same cruel fire that had tempered his own soul.

They were mirror images, he realized. Both weapons crafted by others’ hands, both scarred by the roles they’d been forced to play. Both longing for something they could barely name—freedom, perhaps. Redemption. A chance to be more than what violence had made them.

“The water’s getting cold,” he said, the words inadequate against the magnitude of what he felt.

Shadera nodded, still watching him with that single, wary eye. She tried to stand, her legs trembling with the effort, and Greyson moved without hesitating, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, lifting her with a care he hadn’t known he possessed.

Her body felt fragile against his chest despite the strength he knew it contained. He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and shallow, her skin cool beneath his touch. He lowered her gently into the water, supporting her head as she hissed at the initial contact with her injuries. Steam rose around them, fogging the mirrors, creating a world that existed only in this moment, separate from the horrors that awaited beyond the bathroom door.

For a few precious minutes, there was no Vow ceremony, no Heart, no Boundary. Just two broken people finding a moment of peace in the midst of chaos.

“Is it too hot?” he asked, hands still wrapped around her as if he were scared to let her go.

She shook her head slightly, eyes closing as the warmth began to ease some of the tension from her battered body. “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

Greyson remained kneeling beside the tub, watching as the water turned pink with diluted blood, as her face softened slightly with the first real relief she’d experienced in days. Something twisted in his chest at the sight—something that felt dangerously close to forgiveness.

His brother’s ghost seemed to hover in the steam filled room, a presence impossible to ignore. Shadera had killed him—unknowingly, yes, but the fact remained. His blood was on her hands. Greyson should hate her for that. Should want nothing to do with her. Should walk away and leave her to face whatever fate awaited them both.

But he couldn’t. The hate that had burned so fiercely in his cell had cooled, transformed into something more complex, more painful. He looked at her now and saw not his brother’s killer, but a woman who had been used just as he had been. A pawn in his father’s game, manipulated into becoming the instrument of Brooker’s death without ever knowing the truth.

Could he forgive that? He didn’t know. The wound was still too raw, the loss too profound. But he knew he couldn’t continue to blame her for it.

“I should go,” he said finally, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from where it clung to her body. “Give you some privacy.”

Her eye opened, finding his face with an intensity that made his breath catch. For a moment, he thought she might ask him to stay. Part of him hoped she would. But she simply nodded, another of those small, careful movements designed to minimize pain, emotional now. Not physical.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice steadier than before. “For helping me.”

Greyson stood, his muscles protesting after so long in one position. He moved toward the door, each step taking him farther from her. At the threshold, he paused, his hand on the doorknob, his back to her. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around, to look at her again. If he did, he might not find the strength to leave.

“They are going to die today, the Veyra that touched you,” he breathed. “And then I am going to kill my father.”

Chapter thirty-six11 AM

Callum’s office had transformed into a war room. Maps covered the polished surface of his desk, marked with entry points, security rotations, and escape routes. Weapons were arranged neatly on a side table—sleek, expensive models that would never be traced back to him if things went wrong. Three different communication devices sat before him, each connecting to a different line of communication. One for the Veyra comms, one for his men, one for the rebellion.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His heart thundered against his ribs, but his hands remained perfectly still. Years of practice, of negotiating with the most dangerous people in New Found Haven, had taught him to conceal his fear beneath a veneer of calm.

His eyes flicked to the screen, showing the plaza where the Vow ceremony would take place. Veyra officers patrolled in regular intervals, their masks gleaming in the morning sun. Somewhere among them, blending perfectly, were Jaeger’s mercenaries—Daggermouths disguised as security, as staff, as innocent bystanders. The perfect predators, hidden in plain sight.