Pain reminded him he was still alive.

His mark spanned the entirety of his back, from shoulders to waist. A skull tattooed entirely with solid black ink, the only skin showing through was in the gaps between the hollow eyes, nose, and teeth. It was fitting for Greyson, since he was sure he was dead inside anyway.

That mark rippled across his back as his muscles flexed against the rage.

Greyson needed control, and right now, his father had all of it.

He lifted a hand from the countertop, pushing back the strands of midnight hair that had fallen over his brow, then wrapped his fist around the neck of the bottle. He dragged the glass across the marble, letting the sound echo in the hollow cavern of his glass house before he lifted it to his lips and took another pull.

He walked into the living room, toward the one-way glass that looked over his balcony, over all of New Found Haven, and watched as a million tiny fires and the haze of neon sparkled from the Boundary. Sometimes, he’d wished that he’d been born there.

At least he’d be free from his father.

He imagined the conversation they’d have tomorrow. His father’s voice with its diamond-hard edges, the unspoken warning that if Greyson failed to follow through with the Vow, to marry Moraine, he could be replaced too.

He leaned forward, forehead pressed against the glass, and thought of Callum’s words.

‘Balance does not exist in New Found Haven.’

If there was no balance, no way to make any of this right, then what the fuck was he doing? His entire world felt like it was spinning and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it.

He couldn’t breathe.

Greyson shook his head, trying to clear the noise, the mess that his world had become. The clock on the wall edged past two a.m., each tick a reminder of what he had to do—show strength, show loyalty, show the Heart that he wasn’t the weak son.

His eyes drifted to the intercom panel built into the side table next to his sectional, the small display that linked to the private quarters of his butler, of every housekeeper that worked for him. He strode over and reached for it, finger hovering over the button connected to his butler’s apartment on the floor below.

If he couldn’t stop the spiraling, couldn’t stop the Vow, maybe he could at least take one last piece of what he wanted before it was too late.

He pressed the button, letting the connection buzz to life.

“Chapman,” he said, voice cracking through the speaker.

The answer came back within seconds. “Yes, sir. Do you need something?”

“Call Maya, see if she is available. If she is, please go retrieve her and let her up.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do that now.”

Greyson swallowed. “Thank you. And sorry about the hour.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Chapman responded, and the line went quiet.

The silence after the intercom disconnected was loud enough to fill Greyson’s entire apartment. He drained the last of the gin, set the bottle on the glass coffee table, and moved toward the bedroom. Each step was measured, deliberate—walking the line between control and collapse.

His bedroom was spartan luxury. A massive bed with black sheets, walls the color of fresh snow, a single painting of a storm-racked sea. No personal effects, no photographs. Nothing that could be used against him.

He stripped completely, never letting the remainder of his clothes hit the floor as he tossed them into the laundry hamper. The cold air raised goosebumps across his skin as he stepped into the adjoining bathroom. The mirror reflected a stranger—a man twisted into something haunted. Scars like white lightning littered across his chest where Veyra training had gone too far, where examples had been made of him by his father growing up.

He looked away from his own face, glad the world would never see it.

The shower came on automatically as he stepped onto the tile, steam billowing as he moved beneath the scalding spray. He let it burn away the garage filth, the sweat of fear, scrubbing until his skin was raw.

When he emerged, he didn’t bother with a towel, just let the water evaporate from his heated flesh as he walked back into the bedroom.

The intercom buzzed and he walked over to his nightstand where another control box was embedded into the surface, and opened the channel.

“Sir.” Chapman’s voice filtered through. “Maya is here.”

Greyson’s pulse quickened. “Send her up.”

From the drawer in the table he pulled out another mask. He kept them all over the apartment so one was always in reach.

He slipped the mask over his face, the familiar weight settling against his skin like armor. Even here, even in this moment of anticipated release, he could not exist without the barrier between himself and the world. The obsidian surface caught the dim light of the city from the floor-to-ceiling window. He didn’t bother to close the curtains.

The soft chime of the elevator announced her arrival. Greyson stood motionless in the center of his bedroom, hands clasped behind his back, watching the door while staying completely still. He heard Chapman’s footsteps in the hallway, the low murmur of voices, then the quiet retreat of his butler’s presence.

Maya entered without knocking.

She moved with the grace of someone who understood her role perfectly—neither servile nor defiant, but something carefully calibrated between the two. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, exposing the elegant line of her throat. She wore a simple black dress that hugged her curves without ostentation, but still expensive enough to not look out of place inside this tower.

Maya lived between worlds like Greyson did, and she understood to a degree how it felt to be pulled between the rings. She was from the Cardinal, but worked for Callum at his club. She was not considered elite because she didn’t live within the Heart’s boundaries, but her ability to keep secrets made her sought after by men of the Heart.

Greyson was one of her secrets.

She paused just inside the threshold, her eyes finding his masked face. No words passed between them. There was no need for conversation, no pretense of intimacy beyond the physical. This was transaction elevated to art form.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached behind her neck, pulled her hair from the elastic holding it back, and unzipped the dress in one smooth motion. The fabric whispered to the floor, pooling at her feet like spilled ink. Beneath, she wore nothing—her body pale and unmarked, untouched by the violence that scarred most from the outer rings.

Greyson’s breathing deepened behind the mask. She was beautiful—soft where the world had made him hard, unmarked where it had carved him into something barely human.

She stepped out of the dress and approached him slowly, not with caution but rising desire. Her hands moved to his chest, fingers tracing the raised lines of old wounds.

“It’s late, even for you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

He caught her wrists, grip firm. “Don’t talk.”

Maya nodded, obeying. She sank to her knees before him, hands sliding down his torso with practiced reverence.

This was what he needed—complete surrender from someone who chose to give it, who understood that control was the only currency that mattered in his world.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, grip tightening until she gasped. The sound sent electricity down his spine, that perfect balance of power and submission that made his pulse race in ways the executions never could.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She tilted her head back, meeting the dark holes of his mask with unwavering focus. In her eyes, he saw acceptance, anticipation. She knew what he was, what he needed, and offered herself as a willing sacrifice to his hunger for dominion.

Her lips parted as she gazed up at him, knowing what he craved. She understood that this wasn’t about pleasure for him, not really. It was about having something, someone, that belonged entirely to him in these stolen moments.