Page 46 of Daggermouth

Somewhere in that cage, Shadera waited—alive but captive, turned into a symbol against her will, caught in Maximus Serel’s web.

Three days to plan. Three days to prepare. Three days to imagine what they might be doing to her in that tower of glass and metal.

Three days to honor his promise to Jaeger. If anything happened to her before then—if any word came that she was being hurt, tortured, prepared for execution—no force in New Found Haven would stop him from burning the Heart to the ground to find her.

Some promises were made to be broken. And some people were worth dying for.

Chapter twelve

My Sweet, Spineless Heir

TheelevatordoortoGreyson’s apartment floor swept open with a hiss like a final exhalation before his sanctuary became a battlefield. That’s what it would be with a Daggermouth living beside him—a battlefield.

He pushed his key into the apartment door, twisting until it clicked, then pushed it open. For a moment he hesitated, knowing the second he took a step forward, there would be no turning back.

Greyson took a deep breath then closed his eyes, not caring about the guards or the Daggermouth at his back, and let himself feel as the last vestiges of control slipped through his fingers.

This was it, this was his life now.

His father had won.

His eyes shot open as two hands slammed against his back, jolting him forward and over the threshold. Pain flared through his body as his head snapped toward Shadera and his fingers found the wall for balance.

This fucking Daggermouth.

“Move,” she barked, elbowing past him into the entryway.

He swallowed back a snarl, his eyes narrowing on her as the Veyra slid in beside him and fanned out into the apartment, scanners already whirring to life in gloved hands. Four of them, armed and efficient, their masks reflecting his apartment’s sterile surfaces. His woundpulsed beneath the bandages, each heartbeat pumping blood that oozed out of the torn flesh, each heartbeat a reminder of the bullet that sealed them into this nightmare.

She stood three feet to his left, close enough that he could hear her breathing—controlled despite the bruises mapping her face. She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes fixed ahead, her posture deliberately casual, though her shoulders remained rigid. Blood still crusted her hairline, her left eye swelling rapidly—evidence of what the Veyra had done to her in that prison.

Greyson found himself wondering what other wounds she was hiding underneath her torn clothes, what other prices she’d paid for her failed assassination. None of them would be enough.

The only fair price was her life.

“Standard security sweep, sir,” Mikel announced, though Greyson knew this was anything but standard. His father’s paranoia ran deeper than protocol. “We’ll need thirty minutes.”

Greyson nodded once, the gesture mechanical. His throat had gone dry the moment they’d stepped through the door. Beneath his bedroom closet, wrapped in anti-scan mesh and hidden under a false panel in the floorboards, lay enough contraband medical supplies stamped with the Serel serial number to earn him a public execution.

One moved to the windows, scanner humming as it swept for recording devices. Another opened kitchen cabinets, running gloved fingers along shelves, checking for hidden compartments. The third guard had already begun dismantling the entertainment system, pulling components apart to inspect the wiring.

But it was the fourth officer that made Greyson’s fingers twitch against his thigh. The man headed straight for the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

Shadera shifted her weight, arms crossing over her chest. The movement was relaxed, but Greyson caught the way her eyes trackedeach guard, cataloging their weapons, their positions, their blind spots. Even beaten and bloodied, she was calculating angles of attack. He wondered if she’d try something stupid. Part of him hoped she would—it might provide enough distraction to keep the guards from being thorough. Or at the very least get her killed.

Either would work for him.

“Living area clear,” the first guard reported, moving toward Greyson’s study.

The wound in his abdomen chose that moment to tear, sending a lance of fire through his core. He kept his expression neutral behind the mask, but his hand pressed against his side.

The motion drew Shadera’s attention. Her green eyes flicked to his hand, then up to his mask, and for one suspended moment he thought he saw something other than hatred there. Recognition, maybe. He knew from how she fought, she knew pain intimately—lived in it, breathed it, distributed it like currency.

The thought eddied from his mind as her lips curled into a smug smile and her eyes turned back to the Veyra.

The officer in his study was pulling books from shelves now, shaking them open, checking for hollowed-out pages. Each thud of a book hitting the floor was an echo of his rapid heartbeat. Greyson’s pulse hammered against his ribs. If they found the supplies, his father would know everything. The careful balance he’d maintained for years would shatter.

“Clear,” came the call from the study.