The words carried both threat and blessing, the closest thing to approval Jaeger had ever offered.

“I won’t leave without her,” Jameson promised.

“I know,” Jaeger replied. “That’s what worries me.”

He handed Jameson the final piece of the disguise—a Veyra officer’s helmet with its distinctive reflective faceplate. Unlike the decorative masks of the elite, these were functional, designed to conceal identity while providing tactical information through heads-up displays.

“Remember,” Jaeger said as Jameson took the helmet, “in and out. No heroics, no revenge against the Executioner, no matter how much you want it. Get her and get out.”

Jameson nodded, his heart pounding against his rib cage with such force he thought the armor might crack. He slipped the helmet over his head, the HUD system flickering to life with data streams he didn’t understand and didn’t need to. The final transformation was complete.

Shadera stood in front of the mirror, fingers tracing the spot on her neck where Greyson had touched her. The phantom pressure of his thumb against her pulse lingered like he had branded her. She’d let him touch her. Worse, she’d responded to it.

Fury bubbled up her throat—at him, at herself, at this entire situation that was slowly breaking down everything she stood for.

“Fucking Heart,” she muttered, turning away from the mirror and pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes.

She’d killed men for less than what Greyson Serel represented, for smaller sins than those he’d committed with his own hands. Yet when he touched her, she hadn’t thought of the blood on his hands or her hatred. She’d thought of nothing at all, the world narrowing to the single point where his skin met hers.

Shadera pulled her hands from her eyes, glaring as her vision swam at the edges. “Get it together,” she hissed as she grabbed the edge of her dresser to steady herself. “He’s the Executioner. He’s the fucking enemy.”

But enemies weren’t supposed to take bullets for their sisters or defy their fathers. They weren’t supposed to reveal vulnerabilities or share their pain. They weren’t supposed to have backs mapped with scars from the same system they enforced.

This club, this night out—it was a distraction, nothing more. A chance to gather intelligence, to see more of the Heart’s layout, to plan her escape when the opportunity arrived.

When, not if. She had to believe that.

Shadera pulled open drawers until she found something suitable. The selection was limited—mostly clothes Lira had sent over and Greyson’s shirts. Greyson’s shirts.

Jesus fuck, concentrate.

She shook her head as she settled on a pair of black pants and a dark green top with an open back. The fabric felt too fine against her fingertips, but at least the colors would help blend her into shadows if necessary.

She stripped quickly, tossing her shirt aside and reaching for the new one. As she tugged it out of the drawer and over her head, something fluttered to the floor, landing face down by her feet. A photograph.

The photograph.

Shadera paused, shirt half on as she glanced at the door before looking back at the worn photo paper. She finished pulling it into place before bending to retrieve it.

She had more time to study it now than she’d had when she found it. The two men standing side by side, arms thrown carelessly around each other’s shoulders. Greyson, though younger—perhaps early twenties, his unmasked face smiling in a way she’d never seen. The expression transformed him, erasing the hardness she’d come to associate with his features, replacing it with something that no longer existed in him. The thought made her chest constrict, that that light had been beat out of him.

The second man had to be Brooker.

The resemblance was unmistakable—the same sharp jawline, the same dark hair. But where Greyson’s posture always held tension, this man seemed relaxed, confident in a way that suggested he had never questioned his place in the world even with his mask off. They stood in what looked like a garden, the Heart’s platinum skyline visible behind them.

Shadera turned the photo over. No inscription, no date. Just an image of their unmasked faces frozen in time. A single picture that in the wrong hands, could get Greyson killed.

She turned it back, studying Brooker’s face more carefully. A strange sensation crawled up her spine as she looked at him—a sense of déjà vu she couldn’t place. Something about the angle of his smile, the way he held himself . . .

She’d never seen an elite in the Boundary. No member of the Serel family would ever venture into the outer ring, especially not unmasked. But somehow, she knew this face.

A sharp knock at her door yanked her from her spiraling thoughts. She jerked in surprise, nearly dropping the photograph.

“Shadera?” Greyson’s voice filtered through the door. “Are you ready?”

“I’ll be right out,” she called back, her voice steadier than she felt. Quickly, she folded the photograph and slipped it into her back pocket, patting it once to ensure it was secure. Her fingers slid over her mask, tracing the design before pulling it from its stand and placing it over her face. The weight settled against her skin, a barrier between her and a world she didn’t belong to. Between her and Greyson.

She would need that barrier tonight.

The patrol vehicle smelt cleaner than anything in the rings. Jameson climbed in last, settling onto the hard bench across from Jaeger, the unfamiliar weight of the uniform constraining his movements. Eight of them packed tight in the transport’s rear compartment, breathing the same recycled air, hearts pounding in unison. No one spoke. The stakes were too high for small talk, the risks too great to waste breath on anything but necessity.

The engine hummed to life, the subtle vibration traveling up through the metal floor into Jameson’s bones. For a moment, claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm him—the enclosed space, the identical faceplates surrounding him, the knowledge that they were heading straight into the heart of enemy territory with only the thinnest of disguises protecting them.

The partition slid open, revealing their driver’s unmasked profile. Jameson’s gun was raised and pointed toward him in one single breath, without hesitation.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jameson snarled as Jaeger pushed him back.

“Put your gun down, Ghost,” Jaeger commanded, but Jameson didn’t listen. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“This is your officer on the inside? Him?” Jameson breathed, his voice shallowing to a pitch he used to steady himself before taking a shot.

“Put. Your fucking. Gun. Down.” Jaeger ordered again. This time his hand wrapped around the barrel, yanking it toward the floor.

“Control your dog,” Captain Mikel hissed from the front seat.

A low growl left Jameson’s throat. He was Maximus Serel’s right hand. The man that kept all the Veyra in line. The man that stood beside Greyson Serel on the execution platform.

Jameson’s eyes snapped to Jaeger, rage erupting in his gut. This was a setup, this had to be a setup. “You are trusting this piece of shit with our lives? With Shade’s life?”

“I told you,” Jaeger barked, the palm of his hand connecting with Jameson’s shoulder as he shoved him back into place against the wall. “Everyone has a price.”

Jameson’s chest rose and fell frantically, his eyes darting back and forth between Mikel and Jaeger, weighing his options. The silence pulled for a long minute before Mikel spoke again.

“Credentials,” he said, his eyes still studying Jameson’s form as he passed Jaeger a small stack of metallic cards. “They’re genuine but time sensitive. They will only be good for four hours, after that any checkpoint they are scanned at will alert a security lockdown.”