Page 5

I cross the room in three strides, looming over Alex's shoulder. The screen flickers with an image that makes my stomach turn. Vesper, younger, thinner, eyes vacant in ways that make me want to resurrect Mario just to kill him again. “I want names.”

“You'll have them,” Alex promises. “All of them.”

The room falls silent except for the clicking of keys as Alex copies the files. Even he seems subdued now, no jokes fallingfrom his lips as he works. I step away, unable to look at the screen anymore without putting my fist through it.

“We're going to hunt every last one of them. Every person in these files.”

Oz doesn't argue. His expression has hardened into something I recognize—the cold, calculating look he gets when planning something lethal. “We will. But first, we finish this.”

Ten minutes later, the office is spotless. No blood, no bullet holes, no evidence that Mario Rossi ever met his end here. Alex pockets the flash drive with all the stolen data along with Mario's laptop and his phone, which we find on the desk, and we do one final sweep before heading out to the limo.

“I'll drive,” Alex says, jangling the keys.

“Like hell you will,” I growl, snatching the keys from his hand. “You're in the back, keeping an eye on our cargo.”

Alex opens his mouth to protest but catches Oz's warning glance and shrugs instead. “Fine. But if we get pulled over, I'm not the one explaining why we've got a corpse in the truck. That’s all on you, Z.”

VESPER

I've always knownthat blood washes off easier than guilt. I just never expected to experience it first hand.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at me. Blonde hair plastered to tear-stained cheeks, mascara running in dark rivulets down my face. My uncle's blood spattered across my dress and exposed skin—a grotesque Jackson Pollock of violence.

I need to be clean. I need his blood off of me.

I reach for a washcloth from the neat stack on the corner of the counter.

“Fuck,” I hiss, turning on the faucet. The water runs hot over my flesh as I hear Talon rummaging through my closet in the other room.

I press the damp cloth to my face, watching as Mario's blood dissolves into the white fabric. Pink water swirls down the drain, carrying away the physical evidence but leaving the stain on my soul intact.

“Is this okay?” he asks, holding out a pair of black leggings and one of Zaire’s stolen t-shirts.

I nod, grateful for Talon's thoughtfulness. My voice feels trapped in my throat, like my vocal cords are coated in the same blood I'm washing away.

“Thanks,” I finally manage.

Talon sets the clothes on the closed toilet lid and hesitates, his usually confident demeanor softened by his current concern for me. The golden boy of the Second Sons looks decidedly tarnished in the harsh bathroom light.

“Do you need help?” he asks gently.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak again. What I need is something no one can give me—absolution.

He backs away slowly. “I'll be right outside if you change your mind.” The door begins to close behind him, but the idea of being alone right now terrifies me.

“Talon?”

His retreat stops instantly as he shifts, the door opening wider until his face appears around the edge.

“Stay,” I request.

I stare at my reflection again, fingers fumbling with the zipper. My hands are shaking too badly to manage even this simple task. The tears start again, hot and relentless.

“Let me,” Talon says, stepping forward. His fingers brush mine aside, carefully working the zipper down my back. He doesn't rush, doesn't make me feel exposed despite the intimacy of the moment. “Arms up," he instructs gently.

I comply, allowing him to peel the ruined fabric from my skin. He turns away, giving me space as I slip out of my dress, left in nothing but my underwear.

“Shower,” he suggests, reaching past me to turn the knobs. Steam begins to fill the bathroom as water cascades down. “It’ll help.”