His vision whited out as ecstasy scorched through his blood, burning away every thought, every sensation that wasn’t her. Wasn’t this.

They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and racing hearts. Callum's arms wrapped around her, holding her against his chest as though she might disappear if he loosened his grip. Her breath came in soft pants against his neck, each exhale sending shivers across his skin.

“Five,” she murmured after a moment, a note of satisfaction in her voice that made him chuckle.

“As promised.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her. “Though I’m nowhere near done with you.”

She lifted her head to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”

“Mm.” His hands traced lazy patterns on her back, mapping the curve of her spine. “We have years to make up for.”

The reminder of lost time sobered them both slightly. Lira’s expression grew serious as she studied his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“No more secrets,” she said softly. “No more protecting each other from the truth.”

“No more secrets,” he agreed, catching her hand and pressing his lips to her palm.

The tablet on his nightstand buzzed, shattering the moment. Callum’s body tensed—that particular alert meant urgent news from his network. He reached for it reluctantly, aware of Lira watching him with curious eyes.

The message made his blood run cold.

“What is it?” Lira asked, pushing herself up on one elbow.

He turned the screen toward her, watching her face pale as she read the encrypted message.

Executioner and Daggermouth taken into custody. President’s orders. Location unknown. Vow ceremony preparations continue as scheduled.

“No.” The word escaped Lira in a whisper. “We have to find them.”

Callum was already moving, pulling on his pants and dragging a shirt over his head. His mind raced through possibilities, contingencies, the network of informants he could activate. But finding prisoners the President wanted hidden would be nearly impossible, even with his resources. He reached for the gun he kept in the bedside drawer, checking the magazine then tucking it into his waistband.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice shifting into the cold command of someone preparing for war.

“Like hell,” she replied, sliding from the bed and reaching for her clothes. “I’m not hiding out in your bedroom.”

He wanted to argue, to insist she stay safely away from whatever violence came from this news. But the determined set of her jaw told him it would be useless. This was the new reality between them—no more protection, no more sheltering.

Callum strapped a second gun to his ankle and handed Lira a smaller pistol he kept for emergencies. Marcus’s face flashed behind his eyes as she took it from him and checked the safety and grip.

“You sure you know how to use that?” he asked.

She lifted a brow in his direction. “Did I not prove that this morning? Just give me a thigh holster, I need somewhere to hide this under my dress.”

He didn’t try to hide the smile that lifted the corners of his lips. Maybe she was more suited for his world after all. He pulled a holster out of the bottom drawer of the nightstand and handed it to her before turning to the door and heading for his surveillance equipment.

He paused at the threshold, looking back at her—his heart, his soul, everything that mattered. Callum knew the moment he took a step out of that room, everything would change.

The living room was now bathed in shadows, the security screens casting a blue glow over the furniture. Callum moved silently across the polished floor, every sense heightened. The chime sounded again from the tablet in his hand.

Meeting tonight. Wolf’s Head. 10pm.

He tilted his head at the message, at the timing of it. A rebel meeting the same night Greyson and Shadera were detained.

Someone else is feeding the Boundary information.

He shoved the device back into his pocket, setting his gun on his desk as he scoured the security footage of Haven Tower at double speed, looking for anything. Any sign he had missed, any clue that could tell him where Maximus had taken them.

“What do we do now?” Lira asked from the hallway’s opening, and Callum’s eyes shot up to see her not in her dress, but in the clothes he had kept for her here in silent prayer that she would someday wear them.

His heart convulsed at the sight. At the dream that had miraculously come true at the worst possible timing. He stared at her for a long second, the way the black pants hugged her curves, how her brown hair flowed over her shoulders spilling down the front of the grey knit sweater. The gun strapped snugly to the side of her thigh.

Callum cleared his throat, standing from his desk.

“We’re going to Wolf’s Head.”

Lira froze, looking at him with surprise. “The Daggermouth bar? They’ll kill me on sight.”

“Not if you’re with me.” He holstered his gun, then reached for a blade sitting on the desk’s surface and pushed it in beside his other weapons. “If Maximus thinks he can use the people we care about as pawns, he’s about to learn exactly what I’m capable of.”

Chapter twenty-eightWelcome To The Revolution

Jameson slipped through the narrow space between two derelict buildings, the shadows wrapping around him as they always did. A weight settled in his chest as he moved—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something darker that had been growing since he’d learned about the Vow.

The Boundary smelled of desperation tonight—the usual stench of waste and industrial runoff tainted with fear, with rage. He could feel it in the air, pressing against his skin, seeping through the cracks in the walls around him.

His fingers tightened around the gun holstered beneath his jacket, itching for release. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours since he’d stood in that blue lit room, watching Shadera choose sacrifice over escape. He had been angry at her for that, but now, after pacing and planning and destroying things in the privacy of his hideout, that anger had shifted into respect.

Something moved in the corner of his vision—a flash of reflected light from the end of the alley. Jameson froze, pressing himself against the wall as the mechanical hum of a vehicle grew louder. Veyra patrol. This far in the Boundary. This late.

This wasn’t scheduled.

He ducked behind a rusted dumpster, the sharp edge of corroded metal biting into his palm as he crouched low. The vehicle turned the corner, headlights cutting through the perpetual smog. Its silver hull gleamed obscenely against the backdrop of crumbling infrastructure and makeshift dwellings.

Three more vehicles followed, forming a small convoy that crawled through the narrow street. Jameson’s pulse quickened. Four vehicles meant at least thirty-two officers, possibly more. This wasn’t a routine patrol. This was a statement.

The lead vehicle’s loudspeaker crackled to life, its artificial voice echoing between the buildings. “Residents of the Boundary. By order of President Serel, a curfew is now in effect. Return to your dwellings immediately. Lethal force will be administered if you do not comply.”

The statement played again as the vehicles crawled forward, the sound blaring into the night.

Jameson watched as doors cracked open along the street. Not people fleeing inside as ordered, but emerging. First one, then three, then a dozen Boundary residents slipping out of buildings, faces hard with something beyond anger. They carried makeshift weapons—metal pipes ripped from walls, broken bottles, chunks of concrete. One man clutched a rusted machete that caught the patrol’s searchlight, sending a brief flash across the gathering crowd.

The vehicles slowed.

“Disperse immediately,” the synthetic voice commanded. “This is your only warning.”