Page 115 of Daggermouth

The claim set fire to her nerves.

She watched Greyson’s jaw tighten at the edge of his mask, saw his hands flex at his sides, fingers curling into half fists before stretching out again just inches above his weapon. The gesture was small but loaded with violence. She knew him well enough now to recognize the restraint it cost him, the control he was exerting not to draw.

“Greyson—” she started, trying to keep him calm.

“Don’t.” The single word cut through the air like a blade. “Don’t say another word.”

The command ignited her hate.

“I’m not your fucking wife,” she snapped back, stepping out from behind Jameson’s protective stance. “I willneverbe your property.”

The words came out harder than she’d intended, razor edged and absolute. She saw Greyson’s head tilt further, a small, familiar movement that told her she’d struck a nerve. Good. Let him feel something of what she felt—this suffocating trap closing around her.

Jameson’s body tensed against hers. He turned slightly, confusion evident in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way his gaze darted between her and Greyson.

“What’s he talking about?” The question was directed at her, but his eyes remained fixed on Greyson, tracking every minute shift in posture, every potential signal of attack.

Before she could answer, Greyson pushed away from the doorframe, taking a single step into the room. The movement was too calm, almost languid, but Shadera recognized the deadly intent beneath the relaxed facade.

“Do you really not recognize me?” Greyson asked, something odd entering his tone—a note that could have been amusement orcontempt or both.

Jameson’s response came immediately. “Obviously I fucking do. The Executioner.” His voice hardened on the last word, loaded with all the hatred, all the suffering that title had inflicted on the rings.

“Interesting.” Greyson’s head nodded subtly. “I thought my voice or at least presence would be more memorable.”

Shadera stepped forward suddenly, her voice shifting from anger to something closer to pleading.

“Please,” she said, looking directly at Greyson, “let us go. I know you don’t want to keep me prisoner. I know you’re not like your father.” The words felt too intimate, too revealing of the complicated understanding that had developed between them, but she kept speaking. “You don’t have to do this.”

Greyson remained perfectly still, his eyes fixed on hers. Something shifted in their depths, a flicker of emotion quickly suppressed.

“You made your choice, Shadera,” he finally said. “When you took my contract, when you agreed to my father’s terms, you set events in motion that cannot be undone.”

“What terms?” Jameson demanded, his voice tight with growing anger. “What the fuck is he talking about, Shade?”

“Three days,” Greyson answered. “In three days, we stand on the execution platform and take the Vow before all of New Found Haven.” His gaze moved to Jameson. “Every screen in every ring will broadcast it. The Daggermouth and the Executioner, united in holy matrimony.”

Jameson’s laugh was harsh, disbelieving. “That will never happen. The rings know what she did. The rebels are fighting with her,for her, for what happened in the prison.”

Shadera turned to him, confusion rippling through her. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything in that prison except get people killed.”

Jameson turned toward her, his brow furrowing. “You really don’t know?” He shook his head. “Your assassination attempt has spread through the rings like wildfire.”

Her throat constricted.

“Figures the Heart wouldn’t let you see what’s happening in the rings,” Jameson spat toward Greyson. “The rebels are singing the anthem, everyone in the rings.” His voice softened with something like pride. “It’s become the song of the rebellion. They’re looking to you as a symbol, Shade. The Daggermouth that took a stand against the Heart.”

“I don’t want that,” she said immediately, the words tearing from her throat. “I don’t want to be a symbol. I just want to go home.”

She wasn’t a fucking symbol. She was a mercenary, a killer for hire—not a hero, not a leader, not some face of a failing rebellion.

“I can’t let you leave,” Greyson said, his voice holding a twinge of apology.

“Can’t or won’t?” Jameson challenged, taking a step closer to Greyson. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks like a man who enjoys having a prisoner to play with.”

Shadera saw Greyson’s shoulders tense, saw his hands finally form fists at his sides. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all warmth.

“I can’t.” The words seemed to cost Greyson something, dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. “If she leaves, if she doesn’t take the Vow, people die. People I—” He stopped, recalibrating. “People who have done nothing to deserve it.”