Page 76 of Daggermouth

Annoyance flared in Greyson’s chest. He didn’t have the luxury or romantic attachments. He opened his mouth to fire back whatever equally cutting barb popped into his head when a sharp knock sounded at the door.

They both snapped their heads toward the sound, bodies tensing in unison. Greyson’s hand moved automatically to his mask, fingers curling around the cold metal. Their eyes met across the kitchen, a rare moment of unified concern.

No one was expected. No one knew the surveillance had been deactivated. His father’s men?

Greyson set his mug down slowly, sliding the mask over his face. “Stay here,” he murmured, already turning toward the entryway.

He moved to the door, steps silent, and checked the peephole. The tension drained from his shoulders as he recognized the rose gold mask on the other side.

“It’s Lira,” he said, unlocking the door and pulling it open.

His sister breezed past him into the apartment, carrying a large bag and radiating that particular energy that always seemed to fill any space she occupied. She stopped short in the entryway, her eyes taking in the scene before her—Greyson in nothing but sweatpants and a half-zipped jacket, mask hastily donned; Shadera in nothing but his oversized shirt, hair loose around her shoulders.

“Am I interrupting?” Lira asked, her voice rich with implication.

“No,” Greyson answered too quickly. “We were just having coffee.”

“I can see that.” Her gaze swept over them again, lingering on Shadera’s bare legs and his partially dressed state. “Among other things, apparently.”

Shadera shifted her weight, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement only served to emphasize how little she was wearing, the hem of his shirt riding higher on her thighs. Greyson forced his eyes away.

“Lira, this is Shadera Kael, my live-in assassin,” he said, gesturing between them with a casual wave. “The woman I’m now marrying, thanks to your brilliant plan.”

Lira’s mask tilted, the only indication of her raised eyebrow beneath it. “Charming introduction, Grey. I can see you’re putting real effort into making this arrangement work.”

“Oh, we’re getting along splendidly,” Shadera drawled, leaning against the counter. “He only threatens to kill me every other hour now.”

“An improvement then,” Lira noted dryly. “From every other minute.”

Something like amusement flickered across Shadera’s features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with her default expression of contempt. She took a long sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving Lira over the rim of the mug.

The silence stretched between them, weighted with concealed hostility. Greyson watched the two women assess each other, calculating weaknesses, measuring strengths—predators recognizing each other across a shared hunting ground.

“So,” Lira finally broke the silence, setting her bag down on the counter, “are we going to address the elephant in the room?”

“Which would be?” Greyson asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Greyson Serel,” Lira snapped, turning to face him fully, “you better not be sleeping with a Daggermouth.”

Shadera choked on her coffee, sputtering and coughing as the liquid went down the wrong way. Greyson’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

“Lira.” His voice emerged as a low warning.

“What?” She spread her hands in mock innocence. “It’s a reasonable concern given that you’re both half dressed at seven in the morning and she’s wearing your clothes.”

“We are not—” he started.

“I would rather fuck a rabid dog,” Shadera cut in, recovering from her coughing fit. “Actually, I might prefer the dog to your brother in general.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you,” Greyson snapped as his eyes narrowed on her.

It’s too fucking early for this.

Lira looked between them, the tilt of her head suggesting she was less than convinced as Greyson fought the urge to shove her back out the door. “So the shirt is . . .?”

“Is your whole fucking family this nosey?” Shadera asked before he could answer. “Chapman brought me these clothes. Your father didn’t exactly pack me a suitcase before imprisoning me here. Would you prefer I walk around naked?”

The reminder of how she’d arrived after the prison—beaten, half conscious, dressed in clothes stiff with blood—settled like a weight in Greyson’s stomach. It wasn’t guilt, exactly. More like the awareness of pain added to his family’s ledger already drowning in red.