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He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, fingertips steepled like he’s contemplating God. Or death. Or me.

“I’ve got a job,” I say flatly, meeting the mask head-on. “One that’s going to start asking questions if I don’t show.”

He finally speaks again, and the calm in his voice makes me want to scream. “Your case was put on hold. After Cruz and his men ended up very, very dead. Reyes is untouchable again, and you? You’re benched.”

A silence coils between us, sharp and heavy.

“You enjoyed that,” I mutter, fury building behind my eyes. “All those men—slaughtered in the name of your little message to me.”

Ruin stands slowly, like liquid uncoiling into a weapon. “That was Rule,” he says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. “You didn’t do what was asked. You didn’t follow his rules. He told you that you would regret going to that meeting.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “One guy took out a club full of cartel soldiers? Right. Sure. Sounds legit.”

He chuckles. “You don’t have to believe it. But you really should be careful how far you push us. You’re clever, Seanna. But even clever things break.”

He steps toward the bed, slow and deliberate, his boots silent against the floorboards. I can feel the shift in air pressure as he approaches—like the room holds its breath for him.

“If you behave,” he says, voice low, “if you learn how to be good for us, then we’ll let you off your leash. Give you more freedom.”

I narrow my eyes. “Right. That’s what this is about, huh? Breaking me down. Making me less of a threat. Less violent. More manageable.”

He stops at the end of the bed, head tilting in that unnervingly calm way of his.

“No,” he says simply. “It’s the opposite.”

My breath catches.

“We don’t want to change you,” he continues, voice like velvet over iron. “Your rage. Your darkness. That hunger to dismantle the world? It’s one of the best things about you.”

He leans in slightly, his tone dipping into something quieter. Sharper.

“Your soul matches ours, Seanna. In ways you haven’t even begun to understand.”

I let out a derisive snort. “You really think you have souls?”

“As much as you do.” His answer is instant. Unshaken. “And make no mistake—whatever scraps of soul exist between us? They belong to each other. So I’m going to need you to not try to kill either of us for trying to protect you.”

The words settle like smoke in the space between us, thick and cloying. I should be recoiling, spitting venom, demanding space—but all I can do is stare, the air stretching taut around my ribs.

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard from a psychopath.”

He simply shrugs. “Truth rarely sounds pretty.”

I let the silence hang, dragging a breath through clenched teeth as the fury starts to rise again, giving me something solid to hold on to.

I glare, unmoved. “So you don’t give a fuck if I want to murder half the world, but suddenly you’re concerned I might want to killyou?”

His chuckle is smooth and infuriating. “A little murder in your eyes is fine. Fun even. But we need your hands to stay off the weapons. Just for now.”

“Great,” I snarl. “And what if I just want to piss in peace? Can the hostage at least have bathroom privileges?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he laughs. Softly at first. Then deeper. Richer.

“I was wondering when you’d bring that up,” he says, stepping to the side of the bed. “But you’ll have to ask nicely.”

I raise a brow. “Are you kidding me right now?”