“Handle it how?”

“The way he handles everything. Efficiently. Quietly.” He moved closer, stopping at the opposite end of the counter, maintaining distance but closing it enough that she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “We should talk about last night.”

“No.”

“Shadera—”

“I was drunk.” The words came out too fast, too sharp. “Whatever happened, I’ve already forgotten it. Blackout. Complete memory loss. Medical marvel, really.”

He watched her, that intense gaze that seemed to see through every lie she’d ever told. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.” She met his stare. “And if you ever try to touch me again, I’ll kill you. Properly this time. No more grazes.”

The threat hung between them, hollow even to her own ears. She’d already shot him twice and it’d only seemed to turn him on. She wasn’t sure what that said about either of them.

Something shifted in his expression and Greyson’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Wasn’t the part of the night I was referring to, but I’m glad to see it’s so heavy on your mind.”

She opened her mouth to respond—to deny, to threaten, to do something—when a knock echoed through the apartment.

Three sharp raps. Measured. Deliberate.

Greyson’s demeanor changed instantly. The smile vanished, replaced by alertness. His hand went to the back of his waistband, drawing the gun tucked there. He moved toward the door with careful steps, keeping to the side, out of direct line of fire.

“Who is it?” he called, his voice neutral.

“It’s me,” Callum snapped. “Open the fucking door before someone sees me standing here like an idiot.”

Greyson’s shoulders relaxed. He peered through the peephole, then unlocked the door, keeping the gun partially hidden behind his leg as he pulled it open.

Callum stood in the doorway with a briefcase in hand, wearing an impeccable suit despite the early hour, not a cropped curl out of place, looking like he’d stepped from a magazine rather than arriving to clean up a massacre.

He walked into the apartment, removing his mask before looking up to see Shadera’s eyes pinned on him in surprise.

Right.

She didn’t know him well enough yet to understand that he didn’t give a single fuck about masking policies.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said to Greyson, eyes still focused on Shadera as he took in her appearance. “Rough night?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered into her coffee.

Callum’s gaze swept the apartment again, taking in the blood, the bullet holes, the destroyed furniture. His eyebrows rose slightly. “Well, this is festive. Very avant-garde. Very ‘murder chic.’”

“Are your men with you?” Greyson asked, ignoring his commentary.

“Headed up. But first—” Callum’s eyes darted between them, noting something in their positioning, their careful distance, the tension that crackled in the air. “You two have that guilty look.”

“Cal—” Greyson started.

“I know, I know, there are much more important things to worry about than whatever sick fuck you two got up to in a room full of dead bodies.” He winked at Greyson. “But we’ll definitely be circling back to that later.”

“We didn’t—” Shadera began to protest.

Callum’s hand shot up as a chuckle slipped over his lips. “I’m not here to judge your murder foreplay.”

His men appeared at his back on the tail of his words, dragging a hooded Veyra officer through the doorway.

“Found him on Haven Tower’s roof,” Callum explained, watching as both Greyson and Shadera tensed. “Had quite the setup—long range audio equipment, visual surveillance, a sniper rifle, the works. All pointed at this apartment.”

The guilty looks intensified.

Oh, they’d definitely been up to something.

The air between them practically vibrated with it—that particular tension that came from fighting or fucking, and seeing these two, probably both. Callum filed the observation away for later torment.

“Where?” Greyson asked, his voice taking on that cold edge that Callum knew meant someone was about to have a very bad day.

“Weapons room,” Callum suggested. “It’s soundproof.” He turned to his men. “Start the cleanup. I want this place pristine in three hours.”

They nodded, releasing their captive into Callum’s grip before moving through the apartment, assessing the damage and beginning their work. Callum pulled the officer forward as he followed Greyson toward the hallway.

Shadera fell into step beside them, curious rather than disturbed. “Why did you bring him here instead of killing him?”

“Information,” Callum replied simply. “Dead men aren’t very helpful, but the living can be quite chatty with the right motivation.”

The officer’s whimpering escalated to sobbing as they dragged him down the hallway. “Please,” the officer gasped through the hood. “Please, I was just following orders. I have a family—”

“Shh,” Callum soothed, gently patting the man’s shoulder. “We’re not going to hurt you. Well, not badly. Not if you cooperate.”

The lie came easily. They always did.

The solid metal door had been tampered with—faint scratch marks visible around the electronic lock. Callum smirked, glancing at Shadera with a knowing look as Greyson keyed in the code then pushed his palm to the scanner. The room opened up before them, revealing the steel walls lined with racks of firearms, blades, and more specialized equipment that formed a perfect cube of lethal possibility.

In the center stood a metal table flanked by two chairs, with a single overhead light illuminating the scene like an operating theater. Greyson didn’t bother shutting the door at his back.

“If I didn’t know better,” Callum started, shoving the officer into a chair. “I’d think you were a serial killer.”

“Says the man with a torture briefcase,” Greyson replied dryly, nodding to the case in Callum’s hand.

He smiled, setting the briefcase on the table with care. “It’s not torture, it’s enhanced interrogation. And it’s an art form.”

Greyson zip-tied the officer’s wrists and ankles to the chair quickly. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Sometimes Callum forgot that beneath the brooding and moral conflicts, his friend was still a Serel. Still trained from birth in the application of violence.

Callum took his time preparing. Theater was half of interrogation, after all. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, each fold exact. His rings came off one by one, placing them in a perfect line on the metal table, their surfaces catching the overhead light.

The briefcase opened with a soft click. Inside, his tools lay in custom foam cutouts—hammers of various sizes, pliers, scalpels, and other implements he’d collected over the years. Some innovations of his own.

He noticed as Shadera perched on the table’s edge, legs swinging slightly. Greyson leaned against it beside her, close enough that their elbows touched. Neither pulled away. In fact, they seemed unconscious of the contact, like their bodies had developed their own gravity independent of their minds’ protests.

Fascinating.

Callum wondered as he turned to face the officer, if Greyson had ever noticed these same small tells between him and Lira. If he’d also filed away questions that he never asked.

He pushed the thought from his mind and refocused, reaching for the hood and pulling it from the officer’s head to reveal an older man, mid-fifties. His eyes went wide as his vision was restored, frantically fluttering around the room at the three unmasked faces staring back at him.

“Now,” Callum started, selecting a small hammer from his collection, testing its weight in his palm. “Let’s establish some ground rules. I ask questions. You answer truthfully. Each lie, each refusal, costs you something.” He tapped the hammer against his palm for emphasis. “Each truth buys you time.”