Page 84 of Daggermouth

When they entered, Shadera noticed immediately that packages had been delivered—several boxes stacked neatly on the living room table, a note in elegant handwriting propped against them.

“From Lira,” he said, checking a note attached to the largest box as he removed his mask. “Clothes for tonight’s dinner and the next few days.”

Shadera approached the packages cautiously, as if they might contain traps rather than clothing. The note was simple:

For making an entrance. Choose your armor wisely. -Li.

“I need to review some documents before we go,” Greyson said, already moving toward his study. “Chapman will let you know when it’s time to leave.”

She nodded, watching him retreat. His shoulders carried that same tension she’d noticed earlier, the weight of what was to come pressing down on him visibly.

“Greyson,” she called after him, surprising herself with the use of his name rather than an epithet.

He paused at the threshold, hand resting on the doorframe as he turned back to look at her, a question in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling strange on her tongue. “For showing me.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something more complex she’d not yet learned to read. He inclined his head, nodding as he turned away from her, then hesitated.

Without turning back, he added, “For what it’s worth, I’m not asking you to believe in the Heart. Just to survive it long enough to find a way out. For both of us.”

Then he was gone, leaving Shadera alone with Lira’s packages and a head spinning with conflicting thoughts.

She sank onto the couch, the skull mask heavy against her face. She should remove it—they were alone in the apartment, so no need for the pretense. But something kept her from lifting it away, as if the mask provided a barrier not just between her face and the world, but between her emotions and her judgment.

Every preconceived notion she had about Greyson had been challenged today. Not erased—he was still the Executioner, still the enemy. But beneath that identity, he was also a boy caught in a web. A man created by an evil system whose soul, at the very least, suffered for the pain he’d caused. Evil could sometimes come in the form of beauty.

Chapter nineteen

I Didn’t Know

Greysoncheckedhiswatchfor the third time in as many minutes, the silver face gleaming under the apartment’s soft lighting. His fingers moved to his cuff links, adjusting them needlessly as he stood by the door. The dinner would be a nightmare—it always was with his father—but tonight carried an additional weight of dread. Tonight, a Daggermouth would sit at his father’s table. He ran a finger between his collar and neck, fighting the sensation of being slowly strangled.

His shoulder holster pressed against his ribs beneath his tailored jacket, the weight of the gun a comfort he never had at these family dinners. But with Shadera at his side, he wasn’t taking chances. Chapman had tried to dissuade him but Greyson had been adamant. If things went south, he wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

What would his father do? The question circled his mind like a vulture. Maximus never did anything without calculation, without purpose. The dinner invitation hadn’t been a courtesy, it was a move in whatever game he was playing. Shadera was the wild card neither of them could fully predict.

He was bringing her into the serpent’s nest. Throwing her to his father like raw meat to a predator, knowing he would use every weapon at his disposal to break her, to prove his dominance over both of them.

Greyson checked his watch again. Five minutes until they needed to leave. Five minutes to mentally prepare for whatever psychological warfare his father had planned.

“Should I go retrieve her?” Chapman asked from the kitchen doorway, his posture rigid even in this private setting.

“No.” Greyson felt the word come out more sharply than intended. “She’ll be ready.”

He could still hear the echoes of their conversation in the car. That moment of honesty that had evolved between them.

‘No, I don’t believe in it.’

A single sentence that could get him killed.

He hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but something about her directness had pulled the truth from him before he could think of a lie.

The soft click of a door opening pulled him from his thoughts. He turned toward the sound, expecting the worst—jeans, perhaps, or whatever other form of rebellion she might have concocted from Lira’s carefully selected wardrobe.

What he saw first were the boots. Heavy, black combat boots, scarred from use and utterly inappropriate for a Serel dinner. His eyes tracked upward, a reprimand already forming on his lips.

It died there.