Greyson felt the anger again, rising hot beneath the cold. “She begged. Begged. It wasn’t dignified. But it was—” He couldn’t finish it, so he let the silence say the rest.

Callum stood, smoothing his jacket with both hands. He closed the gap between them in four strides and rested a hand on Greyson’s shoulder. The gesture would’ve been dangerous outside the walls of this club where Veyra eyes could construe it as weakness. Here, it was necessary. Their masks hid nothing from each other, not really.

“You do the best you can,” Callum said. “You always do.”

Greyson looked at him. “That’s not true.”

“You’re not your father, Grey. No matter how many times he tries to carve himself into you.” Callum squeezed, gentle but immovable. “You’re better than him. You still have a heart.”

The words should’ve comforted, but instead they scraped him raw. “If I’m so much better, why did I put a bullet in that man’s head? Why have I put a bullet in hundreds of rebels’ heads?”

Callum shrugged. “Because you’re not a fucking idiot. You still have survival instincts. If you didn’t, you’d both be dead. Maybe that’s not enough. But it’s something.”

Greyson exhaled a slow, shaky breath. “He’s arranging a Vow. Moraine Daunt.”

Callum whistled, low and sympathetic. “That’s quite the match. They’re not even pretending, are they?”

Greyson shook his head. “He wants to make an example. Show the city I’m loyal. If I’m married off to that family, there’s no room for rumor.”

Callum took his hand from Greyson’s shoulder and tapped his ring against the desk’s surface once. “They’re fucking right about that. Are you gonna do it?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Greyson didn’t say the next part. That he was both afraid that he would, and that he wouldn’t.

Callum eyed him, searching. “Why did you really hesitate, Grey?”

Greyson didn’t answer at first. The memory of the woman’s scream hung in his mind, a ghost that refused to be exorcised.

“Because,” he started, “her only crime was falling in love with a man from the Boundary.” He surprised himself with his honesty. “And though I cannot fathom being willing to die for such a feeble emotion, I thought maybe, if I let her go, it would . . . balance something. That it would start to heal the hurt my family has caused.”

Callum shook his head. “Balance does not exist in New Found Haven. And it doesn’t matter whether it was by your hand, or the Veyra, she was never making it off that platform alive.”

Greyson nodded. “I know.”

“Besides,” Callum started again, his voice lighter now. “Love has brought down empires, and your father knows it.”

Greyson snorted. “What do you know about love?”

“Nothing.” Callum chuckled. “I only know of lust, and I would do unspeakable things in the name of lust. So, I can only imagine that if I found love, I’d also be willing to die for it.”

Greyson smiled then, shaking his head but saying nothing.

“Do you not love me, brother? Would you not die for me like I would die for you?” Callum added, with mock offense.

Greyson downed the remainder of his drink. “I’d kill for you without question, but dying for you . . . that’s debatable.”

A full-bodied laugh flowed from under Callum’s mask as he sat back down at his desk and propped his polished boots onto the surface. “You may still have a heart, but you lack emotion.”

Greyson refilled his glass before falling into the chair across from him.

“You have enough emotion for the both of us.” Greyson teased as he swirled the liquid in his tumbler.

Callum’s smile reflected in his eyes. “That’s what got me kicked out of the Veyra training program. Too sentimental, and not enough of whatever the fuck they wanted me to be.”

Greyson remembered the first time he and Callum met. Late-night tactical drills, both of them exhausted, masks fogged with sweat, neither willing to let the other win. Callum would sneak rations to the janitorial staff, would hack Heart surveillance just to prove that he could. That kindness, mixed with his brilliant mind, and firm hand, was what made Callum dangerous.

“You ever regret not finishing?” Greyson asked.

Callum shook his head. “I get to run my own show. Only now, I serve the liquor instead of the lies. Pleasure instead of death . . . for the most part.”

Greyson flinched at the word. His only job was to serve death on that platform.

Greyson studied him. “You do more good in this club than all the Veyra combined.”

“Tell that to my father,” Callum said, voice brittle. “Last time I saw him, he told me I was a parasite. Feeding off the city’s vices.” He laughed, a hollow sound. “I told him it runs in the family.”

Greyson’s lips curled. “I’m sure that went over well.”

Callum shrugged. “He didn’t disown me. Guess he’s still hoping I’ll make a scandal big enough to get myself shot by you on live stream. Until then, he gets free drinks and plausible deniability.”

Greyson swallowed back bile at the thought, the idea that his best friend could do something to land himself on that platform, and he would be the one ordered to take his life. Greyson would never do it. He would, in fact, die to protect Callum if it came down to it.

For a time, neither spoke. The music from the club below swelled, muffled by the double glass, but still present, like the ache in his chest.

Callum broke the silence. “So, what now?”

Greyson stared at the mask stand on the far shelf, empty except for a single antique specimen—blackened iron, a relic of the first generation.

Slowly he stood. “Now, I go to my family dinner. Pretend I care about the Vow, and try not to think about what comes after.”

Callum nodded, rising as well. “And what does come after?”

Greyson hesitated. “I don’t know. But something has to change.”

Callum stepped in front of him again, this time closer. He pressed a hand to Greyson’s chest, right over his sternum. Greyson could feel his heart pounding against Callum’s palm. “Don’t let him take this from you, Grey. Not ever.”

The masks made emotion unreadable, but the heat of Callum’s hand was real.

“I won’t,” Greyson said, and meant it.

Callum pulled his hand back with a flourish. “You know the old rule, right? If you break the Vow before the ceremony, you owe me a case of Boundary whiskey.”

Greyson’s mouth quirked. “If I break the Vow, you’ll die of shock, and I’ll just be dead.”

“I’ll die happy, then.” Callum’s laugh was softer this time. “Good luck with your mother. She terrifies me more than the President.”

“Her silence terrifies everyone,” Greyson replied.

Callum raised his glass in salute, found it empty, and mimed a toast anyway. “You’re going to get through this, Grey. You always do.”

Greyson turned to go, then paused at the door. “Cal?”

“Yeah?”

“If anything happens to me, make them suffer.”

Callum’s answer was immediate. “I’ve got you, brother.”

Greyson nodded, then slipped from the room. The mask of the Executioner never left his face, but under it, for a moment, he could breathe.

He cut through the club’s main room, ignoring the hungry looks and the whispers that trailed him like the scent of blood. Outside, the city waited, hungry for another show of power. He straightened his jacket, checked the watch on his wrist, and walked toward the dinner that always ended in threats.

The Serel residence was a cathedral of old money and even older ambitions. No matter how much the rest of New Found Haven modernized, the President’s quarters remained untouched by anything as fragile as progress. Corridors of burnished black walnut led to the great dining hall, where generations of the Heart’s rule hung in oil and canvas, every ancestor rendered with the solemnity of a funeral mask.