‘You deserve a better father.’

The words burrowed beneath his skin, finding purchase in places he’d thought long dead. She’d spoken then with such conviction, as if she could see some version of him that didn’t exist. He’d spent the night in his study alone, confronting what that moment had revealed to him. His weakness, his desperate hunger for someone to see him as something other than the Executioner.

A drone flew closer than usual, its camera focusing on him for a moment before continuing its patrol. A reminder that privacy was an illusion, even for a Serel.

Especially for a Serel.

The moon had fully risen when Greyson finally pushed himself to his feet. He couldn’t avoid her forever. There were things that needed to be said. Truths that would shatter whatever fragile understanding had formed between them. The thought of it—of watching her face when she learned what the Vow ceremony truly entailed—made something in his chest constrict.

He dragged a hand through his hair, taking in one last deep breath of the garden air before he forced himself toward the elevator. If he were lucky, she’d put him out of his misery the moment she found out what came next.

The descent from the rooftop to his apartment took exactly three minutes and forty-five seconds. He counted each one in an effort to calm the nerves flaring through his system. Count the seconds, focus on the numbers, push everything else away. By the time he reached his apartment, a familiar dread had settled into his bones.

The lock clicked open, and he stepped inside to find the apartment silent. He lifted his mask from his face, setting it on the table quietly as he listened for any sign of her. A soft metallic scraping sound reached his ears from the hallway.

Greyson moved silently, following the noise to the door of his weapons room. Shadera knelt before it, the tip of her tongue visible through her lips in concentration, a makeshift lockpick fashioned from what appeared to be a broken hair pin working at the electronic mechanism.

“Are you going to try and break into something new every time I leave you alone?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral despite the twinge of amusement at her persistence.

Shadera’s body went still, but she didn’t startle or show surprise as she looked up at him, unrepentant. “Yes.”

Greyson found himself fighting an urge to smile at her candor. “That particular door requires both biometric authentication and a twelve-digit code that changes every six hours.”

“I would’ve gotten it eventually,” she said, rising to her feet and squaring her shoulders.

“I actually believe that.” He stepped back, creating space between them. “We need to talk.”

She didn’t answer as her eyes took in the blood on his boots, the uniform. For the first time she didn’t send a jab his way about his duty, about carrying it out and, somehow, that was worse.

“The living room.” He gestured his head as he turned away from her, listening as she followed him at a small distance.

The apartment had been restored to order in his absence—the furniture replaced, broken glass removed, debris cleared away. Chapman worked quickly. No evidence remained of his violent outburst except the additional layer of unease that now stretched between them.

They settled on opposite ends of the couch as Greyson freed himself from his jacket, folding it carefully and placing it across the coffee table, then rolled up his sleeves.

“The Vow ceremony is in three days,” he began, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “You need to understand what will happen.”

“I understand perfectly. I’ll be paraded before the Heart elite, before all of New Found Haven, a trophy to show how even Boundary filth can be tamed.” Her voice carried her usual mocking tone, but her fingers worked against each other, betraying her tension.

“It’s more complicated than that.” Greyson leaned forward, elbows on his knees, searching for words that wouldn’t come. How did one explain a horror built on generations of tradition, a ritual designed to dehumanize and control?

“Just fucking say it, Serel,” she snapped after a minute of waiting.

“The ceremony will be public and held on the execution platform,” he said finally, watching her face carefully. “It will be broadcast throughout the Heart and both rings.”

Shadera’s expression remained unchanged, but he could see the muscle in her jaw fluttering.

“We’ll stand before a veiled altar. You’ll wear white—tradition dictates the bride must appear pure.” The irony of that particular tradition didn’t escape him. “We’ll recite the vows. There’s a brief unmasking. We see each other’s faces, then replace the masks before lifting the veil and turning to face the crowd.” Greyson’s hand moved unconsciously to his face, even with his mask already removed. “It symbolizes an act of binding, the intimacy of seeing each other’s faces.”

“Why are we even doing this ceremony? We’ve already seen each other’s faces. We are already trapped here together, why doesn’t your sister just put out a release that you have taken the Vow privately?” Her words were frustrated and slightly erratic as she folded her arms over her chest.

“He wants the symbolism. You mean something to the rings and he wants everyone watching to understand that you can be brought to heel.”

“And if I refuse? If I don’t speak the vows?”

“Then he makes good on the things he promised us in his office. He hurts the people we love.” The thought made his stomach churn. “Lira. Callum. Your friend in the Boundary—Jameson. They will pay the price and we will watch.”

He saw her flinch at the name, saw something flicker across her face that might have been pain or longing or both. Greyson had the sudden urge to reach for her, to offer some comfort, but he knew his touch would not be welcome. Not now. Not with what he still had to tell her.

“There’s more,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “After the public ceremony, there’s . . . a tradition.”

Something in his tone must have warned her, because Shadera went perfectly still, like prey sensing a predator’s approach.

Greyson couldn’t meet her eyes as he continued. “The marriage must be consummated, in a ritual.”

He paused for her to say something, anything, but she stayed quiet.

“It’s not private. It’s—” He stopped, started again, the words like glass in his throat. “There’s a chamber. Viewing platforms above. The governing men of the Heart, they watch. They witness. They ensure the marriage is . . . properly sealed.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Greyson watched the color drain from her face, watched her hands curl into fists so tight her knuckles went white.

“You’re going to force yourself on me.” Her voice was flat, dead. “In front of an audience. That’s what you’re telling me.”

“No.” The word tore from him. “No, I would never—”

“But you will.” She stood abruptly, fury radiating from every line of her body. “You’ll do it because Daddy commands it. You’ll do it because you’re a good soldier, a good son. You’ll force yourself on a Boundary whore while the Heart’s elite watch and applaud—”

“Stop.” He was on his feet now too, something breaking inside him. “You think I want this? You think any part of me is excited about—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I would die before I forced myself onto any woman. I would put a bullet in my own head before I became that kind of monster.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then she bolted for the kitchen sink, barely making it before her body rejected everything, violent heaves that shook her entire frame. Greyson stood frozen, turning away to look at the wall, to swallow the sickness that was rising in his body.

He didn’t turn back around until the sounds of retching were replaced with a cupboard opening, a cap being unscrewed. He watched her drag the bottle of vodka across the counter and lift it to her lips as she headed toward the balcony without a word.