Greyson refused to flinch at her words. “Is that what we are doing? Playing house?”

“What else would you call it?” She laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “You can call me your fiancée all you want, but I am your prisoner. That’s all I’ll ever be.”

Greyson stepped closer still, his height forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Is that what he was to you too? Why you left him in the Boundary so easily? Just another jailer keeping the infamous Shade tied down? Or did you actually give a fuck about him when you betrayed him too.”

Something flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, at the naked jealousy in his voice.

“I have never betrayed him,” Shadera hissed up at him. “You don’t know anything about him, about us.”

“I know enough.” His voice hardened. “I know he was ready to get you killed. To risk everything on a fucking suicide mission that would’ve ended with both of you dead.”

“At least he was willing to try.” Her voice rose, edged with something raw. “At least he was willing to fight for me.”

“And I wasn’t?” Greyson demanded. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing since you got here? Sitting back and enjoying the show? I’m fighting every day—against my father, against the Heart, against this whole fucking system—just to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.”

Her lips curled. “While still doing his bidding. While still playing Executioner.” She took another drink, her eyes never leaving his. “And what about your little reunion with Maya? Don’t talk to me about Jameson when you were so quick to disappear upstairs with her.”

The accusation startled a harsh laugh from him. “Is that what you thought that was? You jealous, Daggermouth?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Shadera’s tone dripped venom. “I couldn’t care less who you fuck.”

“I wasn’t fucking her,” Greyson snapped. “I was getting information. About my father’s plans, about the military base, about the bombs he’s threatening to drop on your precious Boundary. She hears things in those clubs.”

“How convenient,” she mocked. “I’m sure her hands all over you was just part of the exchange.”

“Careful, Shade.” His voice lowered to a dangerous register. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

They were close now, nearly touching. Greyson could smell the whiskey on her breath, could see the flush spreading across her cheeks, the rapid pulse at her throat. Her anger was a tangible thing between them, reflecting his own, beat for beat.

“I care about surviving,” she said, her voice dropping to match his. “I care about getting out of this alive.”

“Is that why you kept that tablet?” he asked. “The one tucked into your back pocket? Or is it merely for staying in touch with your lover?”

Her eyes widened fractionally, but she recovered quickly. “I’ll use whatever tools I can get.”

“And what about me?” Greyson’s hand came up, not quite touching her hair, but hovering in the charged space between them. “Am I just another tool for you to use?”

Her breath caught, her eyes dropping briefly to his lips before snapping back up. The moment stretched between them, taut and electric.

Then a red dot appeared on the wall beside them.

Greyson reacted on instinct, grabbing Shadera and pulling her to the floor just as the glass of the nearby window spiderwebbed with the impact.

“Stay down,” he hissed, his body covering hers as his hand reached for the gun holstered at his shoulder.

She stiffened beneath him, then went completely still as the sound of movement registered from within the apartment—soft footfalls, the rustle of fabric, the nearly imperceptible click of a safety being disengaged.

“We’re not alone,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

Greyson’s mind raced, adrenaline cutting through the alcohol’s fog. The apartment should have been secure, the security system engaged. Someone had overridden his protocols, which meant only one thing—Veyra.

He moved off Shadera, pressing her against the wall as he unholstered his gun.

Shadera’s eyes were wide but focused, her breathing controlled. Not fear—calculation.

“Give me a weapon,” she demanded, her voice steady.

“No.” Greyson checked the magazine, then chambered a round.

“Are you fucking insane? We’re under attack and you won’t—”

“Figure it out.” He met her eyes, saw the fury there, the disbelief, and smirked at her. “You’re resourceful.”

Before she could respond, he was moving, cracking the balcony door and firing two shots at the sniper position. Return fire erupted immediately.

The apartment broke into chaos.

Veyra officers materialized from concealment points throughout his apartment—behind furniture, from closets, from his fucking bedroom. They’d been here. Waiting. Their weapons were already drawn, faces concealed behind reflective visors.

“Don’t shoot. By order of President Serel,” the lead officer began, “we are instructed to—”

Greyson didn’t wait for him to finish. He fired twice, hitting the man center of mass. The officer staggered back, his sentence ending in a wet gurgle as blood bubbled from beneath his visor.

The remaining four opened fire simultaneously, filling the air with the deafening crack of gunshots. Greyson rolled behind the coffee table and overturned it, splinters flying as bullets tore into the wood.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shadera moving—a blur of deadly grace as she used the chaos to her advantage. She slid across the floor, grabbing a decorative metal sculpture from a side table, and hurled it with precision at the nearest officer. It connected with his visor, cracking it and momentarily blinding him.

In that split second of distraction, she was on him, her legs wrapping around his torso as she used her momentum to bring him crashing to the ground. She grabbed his gun as they fell, twisting it from his grip and firing a single shot through his throat before rolling away from the spray of arterial blood.

Greyson took down a second officer with a clean head shot through the helmet, exploding out the back of his head. Blood sprayed across the white wall behind him, a violent Rorschach test on the pristine surface. The third managed to get off a shot that whistled past Greyson’s ear before taking two rounds to the chest as he turned his attention to Shadera. The fourth was more cautious, retreating to the kitchen where he had better cover.

“Executioner,” the man called, his voice distorted by his helmet. “Stand down. These are the President’s orders.”

“Fuck the President,” Greyson replied, signaling to Shadera with his free hand. She nodded once, understanding passing between them.

Greyson fired three more shots to keep the officer pinned down while Shadera circled around, coming at him from the opposite side. The officer, focused on Greyson, didn’t see her until it was too late. She fired twice, the bullets finding gaps in his armor at the neck and armpit. He crumpled, weapon clattering to the floor.

Another two officers appeared from their places on the balcony while Greyson was distracted, and one was on him before he could stop it. He tackled him backward into the entryway table, the glass mirror shattering as they fell to the floor.

Shadera was rolling behind the island as shots rang out above her but she kept moving toward him, launching herself at his legs. They went down together, a tangle of limbs.

Greyson couldn’t help, couldn’t even watch as the Veyra’s fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back against the ground. Stars bloomed across his vision, but instinct kept him moving. He brought his knee up hard between the man’s legs, earning a strangled cry of pain. As the officer’s grip loosened, Greyson twisted, reversing their positions.

His gun was gone, knocked away in the attack. It didn’t matter. He brought his elbow down against the man’s throat with crushing force, feeling cartilage give way beneath the impact. The officer’s eyes bulged, hands clawing desperately at Greyson’s face, at his arms, at anything they could reach.