Her heart convulsed at his words but she rolled her eyes, forcing the emotion out.

“Then you’re dumber than I thought.” She scoffed and turned away from him, heading back to her weapons on the floor.

Jameson rose, walking to where she stood, and pulled the cigarette from her fingers. He brought it to his lips as his eyes scanned over her arsenal, then blew out a plume of smoke.

“When do you leave?” he asked, not looking at her.

Shadera swallowed, suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt that in the five days since getting the contract, she hadn’t told him.

“Tonight,” was all she answered.

The cigarette burned down between his fingers. Jameson stared at her weapons spread across the concrete like a surgeon’s tools, each one cleaned and calibrated for death. His jaw worked silently, processing what she’d just told him.

“Tonight,” he repeated, voice flat. “And you weren’t going to tell me.”

Shadera knelt down, and began reassembling a gun with muscle memory.

Click, slide, snap.

The sounds filled the silence between them like small explosions. “Nothing to tell. It’s just another job.”

“Bullshit.” He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “This isn’t some Cardinal snitch or Boundary dealer. This is the President’s son. The fucking heir to New Found Haven.”

Her fingers didn’t pause their work. The gun came together in her hands like it’d been born there, every component finding its home.

“Your point?”

“My point is you’re walking into the Heart with a death wish, and calling it Friday.” His voice cracked. “My point is I might never see you again.”

Shadera’s hands stilled.

His honesty saturated the air, raw and bleeding. She could feel the weight of his stare on her shoulders, on the intricate tattoos that wound around her arms like vines of violence. Snakes and chains, roses with thorns sharp enough to cut, names of the dead written in a line that crawled up the side of her shoulder, and onto her neck.

She forced herself to look at him then, really look at him. Silver hair falling across his forehead, green eyes that held too much hope for a man who’d seen what they both had. The scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw, courtesy of a too drunk Daggermouth a few years back.

He was beautiful in the way broken things could be—sharp edges and jagged lines that caught the light wrong.

“Well, it will be just another Friday, and you knew what this was when you started fucking me. You know I don’t make attachments,” she said. “Don’t act surprised now.”

“I’m not surprised.” Jameson stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the cigarette smoke on his hands and the faint scent of gunpowder that clung to his clothes. “I’m terrified.”

The admission caught her off guard as she stared up into his eyes. Men like Jameson didn’t admit fear. They swallowed it down with cheap liquor and let it fester until it poisoned them from the inside out. But here he stood, laying his throat bare for her to cut.

She rose slowly, the gun heavy in her hand. “Fear is a smart thing to feel, it keeps you safe.”

“Then be smart, Shade. Walk away from this one.”

A laugh escaped her throat. “Walk away? You think I can just walk away from Greyson Serel?” She gestured toward the wall where his masked face stared back at them, punctured with holes from her throwing knives. “That family destroyed everything I ever loved. My life, my—”

“Your parents,” Jameson finished quietly. “I know. But throwing your life away won’t bring them back.”

“Who says I’m throwing it away?” She moved past him toward the lockers, and began pulling out gear. A tactical vest, night-vision goggles, and a drone scanner. “Maybe I’m finally taking it back.”

He watched her pack, each piece of equipment disappearing into her bag strategically. The weight distribution had to be perfect—too heavy and she’d never make it up the elevator shaft, too light and she’d lack the firepower to fight her way out, if it came to that.

“What if I asked you not to go?”

The question stopped Shadera cold. Her hand froze in midair, reaching for a coil of rappelling cord.

“What if I got on my knees right now and begged you to stay?” Jameson’s voice was raw, stripped of its usual cocky edge. “Would it matter?”

Shadera’s throat tightened. She could picture it—Jameson Vine, who’d never bent the knee to anyone, dropping to the concrete floor of her warehouse. The image made her sick, made something twist painfully in her chest.

“No,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a lie.

“Look at me when you say it.”

She turned, meeting his gaze head-on, watching as his eyes raged like an autumn storm. “No, Jay. I wouldn’t stay. And it’s not because I don’t care for you, and it’s not because I have a death wish. I don’t expect you to understand, but I have to do this. I have to do this for me.”

They stood, staring at each other as seconds ticked by, neither knowing what else to say. She wanted to tell him that she’d be back, that she’d make it home safe, but it was a promise she refused to make. So instead, she stayed quiet, memorizing his features until the light on her watch went red, signaling the midnight hour.

It was time.

She felt a sudden, fierce thrill. The kind that came before a kill, before the whole world narrowed to the size of your target. She shouldered her pack, feeling the weight settle against her scars.

She strode toward him as she tightened the holster around her thigh, then took his face in both hands, scarred palms pressing into both cheeks. “You’re a good man, Jay. If all goes well, you will be the first to know when I am back.”

Jameson didn’t ask for her approval, didn’t ask for permission as he pulled her against him, and kissed her hard and angry and scared. Shadera let him, let him have that.

Maybe even let herself have it too.

She pulled away, her forehead resting on his for only a breath before pressing a palm to his chest, and stepping away. A sad smile flickered across her lips as she pushed past him toward the door.

He reached for her hand, stopping her. “Don’t die on me, Shade.”

“I’ll try, but no promises.” She squeezed his fingers, then let go.

A heavy breath seeped out between Shadera’s lips as she slipped through the door, and stepped out into the Boundary.

The countdown started at midnight, and her watch silently ticked away at the seconds. She had two hours and fifty-two minutes to get into the Heart before the next patrol.

Jameson stood in the empty warehouse, surrounded by the ghost of Shadera. He looked around at the way she’d left it, and memorized every image he had of her walking inside these concrete walls over the years.

He groaned, dragging his palms down his face as he sat on the edge of the bed, and let his elbows fall to his knees. His fingers absently traced the cooling spot where she’d lain as he let the silence settle over him.

He knew she’d be a legend someday. That her name would be the one people cheered in the streets as change rolled over New Found Haven, he just never imagined the possibility that she might not be there with him to witness it.

Killing Greyson Serel would incite that change, would start the ring war they were already on the precipice of.

He wondered to himself as he laid back on the bed, locking his arms behind his head, if she ever thought of him when she killed. If it was ever his face in the back of her mind in the moments when she didn’t know if she would make it home.

He hoped she did.

Chapter fiveClose Calls

Shadera Kael slid into the maintenance tunnels with her breath locked in her throat, the entry hatch sealing behind her with a cough of carbon and dust. The world above—its petty clamor—was snuffed in an instant, replaced by the bone-deep silence of concrete. She pulled on her night vision, let her eyes adjust, and swallowed the dread that rose up in anyone who knew what the tunnels were built for. Not just the movement of Veyra patrols, but the drainage of blood, sewage, life.