Shadera went very still, absorbing the stark acknowledgment that aligned so closely with her own condemnation.

“I hate him,” Greyson stated, leaving no room for her to question it. “Maybe even more than you do. More than Lira does. More than anyone could possibly understand. I’ve watched him destroy everything he touches—my mother, my brother, the city, me. I’ve pulled the trigger on people knowing their only crime was desperation, was questioning a system designed to break them.”

His gloved hand curled into a fist on his knee, the leather creaking with the force of his grip.

“I know exactly what I am, Shadera. I know the blood on my hands will never wash clean. I know that when judgment comes—if there’s anything after this life—I’ll burn for what I’ve done.”

Shadera’s breath caught. The unfiltered honesty in his voice stripping away a layer of hate she’d constructed around him. This wasn’t the script she'd expected, wasn’t the conversation she’d prepared for. This was something raw, something dangerous.

“Then why serve him?” she asked, her voice matching his quietness. “If you understand what’s happening, why be his weapon?”

“Because the alternatives are worse.” He turned to face her, and even through the mask, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. “Because my father would replace me with someone who enjoys the killing. Because there are things I can do from this position that I couldn’t do from a grave.” His eyes flickered to his hands. “It’s not enough. It’s never enough. But it’s something.”

“What things?” She leaned closer, curiosity and doubt warring. She needed specifics, needed proof. “What are you doing to right your wrongs, little heir?”

Something changed in his posture—a subtle withdrawal, a reassertion of control. “Another time,” he said, reaching again for the door. “We should prepare for dinner.”

And just like that, the moment of vulnerability closed. Shadera wanted to grab him, force him to continue, demand evidence of these claims that upended her understanding of him. But the car door was already open, Chapman standing at attention, the moment lost. The walls rebuilding themselves between them.

She followed him into the building, noting how the security personnel straightened as he passed, how their eyes widened at the sight of her mask before quickly returning to carefully neutral expressions. The elevator carried them upward in silence, floor after floor disappearing beneath them as they ascended to the penthouse levels.

When they entered, Shadera noticed immediately that packages had been delivered—several boxes stacked neatly on the living room table, a note in elegant handwriting propped against them.

“From Lira,” he said, checking a note attached to the largest box as he removed his mask. “Clothes for tonight’s dinner and the next few days.”

Shadera approached the packages cautiously, as if they might contain traps rather than clothing. The note was simple:

For making an entrance. Choose your armor wisely. -Li.

“I need to review some documents before we go,” Greyson said, already moving toward his study. “Chapman will let you know when it’s time to leave.”

She nodded, watching him retreat. His shoulders carried that same tension she’d noticed earlier, the weight of what was to come pressing down on him visibly.

“Greyson,” she called after him, surprising herself with the use of his name rather than an epithet.

He paused at the threshold, hand resting on the doorframe as he turned back to look at her, a question in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling strange on her tongue. “For showing me.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something more complex she’d not yet learned to read. He inclined his head, nodding as he turned away from her, then hesitated.

Without turning back, he added, “For what it’s worth, I’m not asking you to believe in the Heart. Just to survive it long enough to find a way out. For both of us.”

Then he was gone, leaving Shadera alone with Lira’s packages and a head spinning with conflicting thoughts.

She sank onto the couch, the skull mask heavy against her face. She should remove it—they were alone in the apartment, so no need for the pretense. But something kept her from lifting it away, as if the mask provided a barrier not just between her face and the world, but between her emotions and her judgment.

Every preconceived notion she had about Greyson had been challenged today. Not erased—he was still the Executioner, still the enemy. But beneath that identity, he was also a boy caught in a web. A man created by an evil system whose soul, at the very least, suffered for the pain he’d caused. Evil could sometimes come in the form of beauty.

Chapter nineteenI Didn’t Know

Greyson checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes, the silver face gleaming under the apartment’s soft lighting. His fingers moved to his cuff links, adjusting them needlessly as he stood by the door. The dinner would be a nightmare—it always was with his father—but tonight carried an additional weight of dread. Tonight, a Daggermouth would sit at his father’s table. He ran a finger between his collar and neck, fighting the sensation of being slowly strangled.

His shoulder holster pressed against his ribs beneath his tailored jacket, the weight of the gun a comfort he never had at these family dinners. But with Shadera at his side, he wasn’t taking chances. Chapman had tried to dissuade him but Greyson had been adamant. If things went south, he wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

What would his father do? The question circled his mind like a vulture. Maximus never did anything without calculation, without purpose. The dinner invitation hadn’t been a courtesy, it was a move in whatever game he was playing. Shadera was the wild card neither of them could fully predict.

He was bringing her into the serpent’s nest. Throwing her to his father like raw meat to a predator, knowing he would use every weapon at his disposal to break her, to prove his dominance over both of them.

Greyson checked his watch again. Five minutes until they needed to leave. Five minutes to mentally prepare for whatever psychological warfare his father had planned.

“Should I go retrieve her?” Chapman asked from the kitchen doorway, his posture rigid even in this private setting.

“No.” Greyson felt the word come out more sharply than intended. “She’ll be ready.”

He could still hear the echoes of their conversation in the car. That moment of honesty that had evolved between them.

‘No, I don’t believe in it.’

A single sentence that could get him killed.

He hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but something about her directness had pulled the truth from him before he could think of a lie.

The soft click of a door opening pulled him from his thoughts. He turned toward the sound, expecting the worst—jeans, perhaps, or whatever other form of rebellion she might have concocted from Lira’s carefully selected wardrobe.

What he saw first were the boots. Heavy, black combat boots, scarred from use and utterly inappropriate for a Serel dinner. His eyes tracked upward, a reprimand already forming on his lips.

It died there.

The dress was black, simple in its design but devastating in its effect. It hugged curves he’d been trying very hard not to notice, the fabric clinging to her body before falling in a soft line at the center of her inked and scarred thighs. The contrast between the delicate dress and those battle-worn boots should’ve been jarring, but somehow it worked—a visual representation of the contradiction that she was.

His gaze continued upward, past the cinched waist to the neckline that dipped lower than Heart fashion typically allowed. It exposed the elegant hollow of her throat, the crooked line of collarbones that hadn’t healed correctly, and a constellation of scars that marked her skin like stars on a map of violence. One particularly vicious scar ran along her right shoulder, disappearing beneath the thin strap of the dress.