Page 54 of Daggermouth

His gaze swept over the scattered papers again. “Just making yourself at home, I see.”

The mockery in his tone made her fingers twitch in annoyance. She rose from her crouch slowly, keeping her face neutral.

Never show your enemy what you’re thinking.

“Looking for something to kill you with, actually.” She answered honestly and watched how it landed on his features.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

He moved farther into the room, stepping over the papers she’d strewn across the floor without looking at them. His focus remained entirely on her face, those blue eyes tracking the bruises, the swelling, the evidence of what he and his people had done.

He stopped near the desk, his body angled to keep both her and the door in his line of sight as he rolled his sleeves up his forearms. His skin stretched tight over the muscle, the veins pulsating underneath jutting out like ridges.

Shadera watched as his fingers perfected each roll of the fabric on both arms before they curled around the ledge of the desk. He leaned back into it without once taking his eyes off her, studying her. She hadn’t really looked at him until now, truly looked at him. He had to be at least six four, maybe taller. His features were hard—sculpted as if he’d never learned to smile. But underneath the harshness of the sharp edges, underneath the dark brows and deep set eyes, she could see a torrent of emotion raging there. She wondered if anyone else had ever seen it, if anyone had ever seen what turmoil he hid behind the mask.

She swallowed, tearing her eyes away from him.

“You should be resting,” he said. “You need to look presentable for the family din—”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck how I look for your sick family dinner,” she cut him off, striding toward the desk and snatching the vodka bottle from beside him before walking to the window at his back. She took a long pull as she looked down at the Executioner’s platform. “You killed someone this morning. A child.”

“He wasn’t a child.” The response was automatic, defensive. “He was nineteen. Old enough to know the consequences of theft in the Heart.”

“Theft,” she said quietly, taking another drink. “What did he steal? Bread? Medicine? Something to keep his family alive while you feast up here in your tower?”

Greyson’s expression hardened. “He stole from a Heart clinic. Medical supplies meant for citizens who contribute to society.”

The rage that flooded through her was volcanic, obliterating. Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she was moving. Not forthe door, not for his throat—just moving, needing to move the fury in her body before it exploded. His back straightened slightly as she took a step in front of him and looked up into his face.

“Contributing to society?” Her voice cracked on the words. “You mean being born in the right ring? Having the right last name? The boy probably had siblings dying of infection while you hoard antibiotics for people who have never known a day of real sickness.”

Shadera was close enough now to see the flecks of darker blue in his irises, close enough to smell the leather of his gloves and the gunpowder that lingered there.

“The law is clear,” he said, but something in his voice wavered. Exhaustion, maybe, something close to resignation. The bone deep weariness of someone who’d repeated the same words so many times they’d lost meaning.

“Yourlaw.” She jabbed a finger at his chest, connecting with a solid wall of muscle. “Yourfather’slaw. Written by murderers to protect murderers.”

His hand shot up, catching her wrist before she could pull back. His grip was firm but not painful, his thumb pressing against her pulse point where her heart hammered its rage.

“Careful,” he said, voice dropping low. “The walls have ears.”

She knew they were listening. Every word they spoke recorded, analyzed, judged. But the anger burning through her didn’t care about consequences anymore.

These people had taken everything—her parents, her freedom, her hope. Now they wanted to parade her around like a prized animal, use her to break the spirits of those still fighting.

“Let them listen.” She stood there, letting him feel her pulse race with hatred. “Let your father hear exactly what I think of his empire built on the bones of the people you killed.”

She pulled her wrist free, shoving a step away from him. Still he didn’t move. Only watched her, watched the emotions break through her composure.

“How many people have you killed, Greyson? Hundreds? Thousands? Do you even keep count anymore, or do they all just blur together?”

He straightened at her words, pushing off the desk and taking a step away from her as if to ground himself from the question.

“Every one,” he said, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a sharp breath. “I rememberevery one.”

She hadn’t expected that answer, hadn’t expected vulnerability. The raw truth. She studied his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation.

“Then you’re more of a monster than I thought.” The words came out softer than she’d intended. “You remember them, and youkeepkilling.”