The rage that surfaced was immediate and volcanic. “I am better than you,” he growled, his hands curling into fists. “You’re a Daggermouth. You kill for credits. I kill for order, to keep this fucked-up city from falling into chaos. How many people have you killed to fill your pockets?”

The proximity of her body sent warning signals firing through Greyson’s nervous system. She was dangerous, injured but still lethal.

“The difference is I don’t pretend it makes me righteous.” She was close enough now that he could see the individual bruises on her throat, purple-black fingerprints where the Veyra had grabbed her. “I kill because I’m good at it. Because every contract I fulfill keeps medicine in the clinics, keeps families in the Boundary from starving even for just a few more days. You kill because Daddy tells you to.”

The words barely left her mouth before he moved. Not a conscious decision, just his body reacting to the insult, to the truth of it. His hand shot out to grab her wrist, to force her back, to make her stop fucking talking.

She twisted away faster than he’d expected, using his momentum against him. Her elbow caught him in the ribs—not hard, but enough to make pain burst from the center of his wound. He turned toward Shadera just as she swung the vodka bottle, aiming for his head. He ducked under the blow, his shoulder slamming into her midsection and knocking her to the floor, the bottle shattering beside them.

Shadera’s knee connected with his groin as he tried to pin her, the breath whooshing out of him in a pained grunt. She followed with a fist to the jaw, snapping his head back, then rolled out from under him, coming up in a crouch a few feet away.

Greyson surged to his feet, his eyes blazing. “You fucking bitch,” he snarled, spitting blood onto the floor.

Shadera grinned at him, a feral flash of teeth. “What’s the matter, Executioner? Can’t handle a little foreplay?”

Greyson charged her again. This time, he caught her around the waist, lifting her off her feet and slamming her back against the refrigerator. Magnets scattered, clattering to the floor like metallic rain.

Shadera drove her fist into his kidney once, twice, three times, but Greyson clenched his jaw through the pain and tightened his grip, one hand digging into her hip as the other closed around her throat.

Her hand slid between their straining bodies, finding the bandage on his stomach, and dug her fingers into the wound.

The pain was exquisite, white hot, obliterating. Greyson’s grip on her throat loosened as he gasped in agony, vision going dark at the edges, and Shadera used the moment of weakness to shove him backward. He stumbled, his back slamming into the island, and she was on him in an instant, her forearm pressing down on his windpipe.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, both of them panting, their faces inches apart. Her green eyes were wild, her pupils blown wide with adrenaline and rage.

Greyson’s hand shot up, his fingers closing around her fractured collarbone and squeezing. She didn’t bite back the scream that tore from her throat as her knees buckled and Greyson kicked her back against the counter opposite of them. He pinned her there, his body pressed against hers, his hand still tight around her collarbone.

“Not so tough now, are you Daggermouth?” he growled, his lips brushing her ear. “Without your knives and your guns, you’re nothing. Just a scared little girl playing at being a killer.”

Shadera snarled wordlessly, bucking against him, trying to throw him off. But Greyson was bigger than her, stronger, and he had the advantage of leverage. He ground her down into the marble, his hips fitting perfectly against hers.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, locking her in place with his body weight as her eyes connected with his. “To fight until one of us is dead? If it is, I’ll be sure to make it slow—to savor it.”

“Is that what gets you off, little heir?” she breathed, taunting him as he pushed his chest closer to hers. “Do you like it rough? Like inflicting pain?”

He fucking loved it rough.

Greyson shook the traitorous thought from his head as a charged silence grew, both refusing to be the first to break.

“Mr. Serel?”

Chapman’s voice from the doorway shattered the moment like a bullet through glass. Greyson shoved away from Shadera so violently he nearly fell, keeping his back to Chapman so he wouldn’t see his face.

“What?” The word came out as a snarl.

Chapman stood perfectly still in the doorway. His mask on, hands clasped behind his back in his typical pose as he took in the destroyed kitchen—broken glass, scattered papers, blood on the counter.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” Chapman said, his tone professionally calm. “I rang a few times, but the President ordered I enter to help Ms. Kael settle into her rooms.”

Greyson’s jaw worked, fury and annoyance fighting for dominance beneath the pain. Behind him, he heard Shadera push off the counter, her boots crunching on broken glass.

“Fine,” he bit out. The word was insufficient, too small for everything boiling in his chest, but it was all he could manage.

He needed distance. Space. A locked door between him and that fucking animal. Without looking at either of them, he strode toward his bedroom, his gait slightly uneven from the reopened wounds.

“Mr. Serel,” Chapman called after him. “Should I send for medical—”

“No.” He didn’t turn around, couldn’t look at them. If he did, he might do something stupid. Like show another person his face.

The bedroom door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the bed frame. He pressed his back against it, chest heaving, and slowly slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Blood seeped through his fingers where he pressed against the wound.

Through the door, he could hear Chapman’s measured voice, asking Shadera if she required medical attention. Her response was too low to make out, but the tone suggested threats of violence if he came any closer.

Greyson closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the door.

His father wanted them to destroy each other, and it seemed he might just get his wish.

Chapter thirteenDaggermouths Don’t Cry

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, and Shadera stood in the marble silence, breathing through her teeth. Everything gleamed—obsidian tiles, porcelain fixtures, a tub deep enough to drown in. The kind of luxury that could feed a Boundary family for a decade.

Her reflection stared back from three different mirrors, each angle revealing new damage. Blood had dried in abstract patterns across her skin, some hers, most not. Veyra blood. The prisoners’ blood. All of it caking together into a second skin she needed to shed.

Her fingers found the hem of the prison tunic, and she pulled upward. The movement sent lightning through her ribs, sharp enough she stopped halfway, arms trapped above her head, fabric bunched around her shoulders. She breathed shallow, counting to three, then yanked it the rest of the way off. The shirt dropped to the pristine floor just like the prisoners had—crumpled, bloody, forgotten.

The pants were worse. Bending forward made her vision swim, made the fractured collarbone grind against itself. Made blood rush to the stab wound in her side. She worked them down her hips with trembling hands, leaving blood smeared down her legs. When she finally kicked free of them, she caught herself on the sink’s edge, knuckles white against the marble.

Every injury screamed at her from the mirrored glass. Purple-black bruises mapped her torso like territories of pain. The swelling around her left eye had spread down her cheek, turning half her face into something unrecognizable. Her collarbone sat wrong beneath the skin, a visible ridge where bone had separated. The places where shock batons had seared her flesh were already blistering, angry red circles that would scar.