She studied Callum with new interest, her drunk mind working to categorize him. Heart elite, obviously, but something else too. The way he moved, the scars, the casual comfort with crises.

“What do you do?” she asked, hearing the slight slur in her words. “Murder people too?”

Callum’s laugh was genuine, warm in a way that nothing in the Heart should be. “No, I have people for that.” The honesty of it, delivered with such casual charm, made her blink. “I do many things. Run the Entertainment District. Procure things that need procuring. Currently, I’m helping you two lovebirds.”

Shadera nearly gagged at the word as he winked at Greyson who looked like he might murder him right there in the kitchen.

“The study?” Greyson ground out.

“The study,” Callum confirmed, with a mischievous glint in his eye as he turned back to Shadera. “Try not to burn anything else down while I work.”

Shadera didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling at himself behind the mask as he disappeared off into some corner of the apartment, leaving them alone with the mess.

The kitchen still reeked of smoke as Shadera leaned against the counter and pulled the jagged piece of glass from her leg then tossed it onto the counter. She let her eyes wander to Greyson, watching him survey the damage with those cold blue eyes.

“How drunk are you?” He didn’t look at her when he asked, just started gathering the broken remains of the pitcher from the floor.

“Wouldn’t mind being drunker.” She reached for the vodka bottle, but he moved it away from her before her fingers could hook around the neck.

“You should have called Chapman.” His voice carried that particular tone that made her want to throat punch him. “That’s what he’s here for.”

“Like I said, just because I’m currently a prisoner here does not mean I’ll add to your workers’ suffering.” The words came out just as she intended, sharp and accusatory.

Greyson stopped moving for one second then turned to fully face her. They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island now, the granite between them like a battle line.

“Chapman isn’t a slave,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He’s paid well. Very well. He’s from the Cardinal, has family there. He’s been with me for ten years now, by choice.”

Shadera scoffed, the sound ugly in her throat. “Right. Because someone from the Cardinal has so many choices working for the Heart’s Executioner.”

Greyson’s jaw shifted, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “He can leave whenever he wants. I’ve offered to help him relocate three times. He stays because—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Why am I explaining this to you?”

“Because you’re trying to pretend you’re not a monster,” she said, with a mock pout and sarcasm lacing every word. “Good help must be hard to find when you murder children for a living.”

His hands flattened against the granite, and she watched the tendons in his forearms go taut. For a moment, she thought he might come around the island, might wrap those hands around her throat again. Part of her wanted him to. Fighting was easier than talking.

“Can you cook?” The question came out of nowhere, his tone shifting to something almost curious.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question. Can you cook?”

The vulnerability hit her before she could stop it, cutting through the vodka haze like cold water. Her shoulders went rigid, defensive. “No.”

He waited, those eyes steady on her face.

“In the Boundary, we don’t—” She hated the way her voice cracked. “Food comes in cans. Packages. Already made. We don’t have fresh anything. Don’t have fancy stoves with temperature controls and timers and—” She gestured vaguely at the kitchen. “We don’t have any of this.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not pity—she would have hit him for pity. Something else. Understanding, maybe, though that seemed impossible from someone who’d never known hunger.

“Sit,” he said.

“I don’t take orders from—”

“Just fucking sit, Shadera.” It was softer this time, tired, but still a command. He pulled a crystal glass from a cabinet, set it on the island between them. Then he retrieved the vodka, pouring two fingers into the glass. “Civilized people use glasses.”

“Good thing I’m not civilized then.” But she took the glass anyway, the crystal cool against her palm as she sank onto the stool. She took a sip, watching him as he moved to the refrigerator.

He pulled out ingredients with an efficiency that spoke of familiarity—vegetables she recognized and some she didn’t, another package of meat, bottles and jars of things that might have been spices or sauces. Each movement was relaxed, economical.

Shadera watched, suspicion warring with curiosity as he arranged the ingredients on the counter. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” he answered without looking at her.

“You?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “The Executioner knows how to cook?”

“The Executioner has a name,” he replied, pushing the vegetables into the sink and turning on the water. “And yes, I cook.”

The admission surprised her. She took another sip of vodka, let it burn away the questions that wanted to follow. He reached for something on the counter—a small tablet—and pressed a button. Music filled the kitchen, nothing like the thundering bass from the clubs in the Boundary. This was something instrumental, complex, a blend of sound that seemed to wrap around the space.

Then he rolled up his sleeves

The movement shouldn’t have caught her attention, but the vodka made her notice things she usually wouldn’t. The fabric folded back to reveal forearms that were . . . She took another drink. They were just arms. Nothing special about the subtle flex of muscle under skin as he reached for a knife.

The domesticity of the scene was so at odds with everything she knew about him that for a second she wondered if she was dreaming as he began to cut the vegetables.

The knife moved through the items with ease, reducing them to uniform pieces. He had surgeon’s hands, she thought hazily. Killer’s hands. She’d seen those hands sign death warrants, had imagined them covered in blood. But watching them work now, she could almost forget what they had done. How many necks they’d snapped. How many triggers they’d pulled. Now they were almost gentle, careful, creating instead of destroying.

She found herself watching his fingers—long and elegant, yet powerful—as they guided the blade.

“Where did you learn to cook?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

He paused, knife hovering above a red pepper. “My mother taught me the basics. The rest I learned on my own. I find it . . . cathartic.”

“Your mother?” The concept seemed absurd—the Executioner as a child, standing at his mother’s side, learning something as ordinary as cooking.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I wasn’t born with a gun in my hand.” There was a hint of something like amusement in his voice. “I had a childhood. Of sorts.”

She didn’t answer, instead took another slow sip from her glass as she watched him, the alcohol softening the edges of her perception. Her eyes traced the line of his jaw below the mask, the way it flexed as he concentrated.

The muscles in his back moved beneath his shirt as he worked, and she found herself tracking the movement with unconscious interest. His movements were graceful, controlled, a body trained for violence. He was built like a fighter—not bulky, but carved from consistent training. She wondered what kind of training produced a body like that. What kind of pain he’d endured to earn those muscles.

A traitorous part of her mind whispered that he was beautiful, in the way that dangerous things often are—a predator in motion, a storm rolling in, a blade catching the light. She crushed the thought immediately.