Page 15 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sienna

Three weeks.

That's how long I've been living in Varrick Bane's penthouse, wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, forgetting who I'm supposed to be.

Three weeks of pretending this is temporary while my traitorous heart whispers otherwise.

Three weeks of watching him make breakfast, of sparring matches that end with us tangled on the mat, of him looking at me like I'm something more than my father’s weapon.

I'm losing myself, or maybe I'm finding myself.

Either way, it terrifies me.

This morning, I wake before him—a rare occurrence since he barely sleeps.

The digital clock on his nightstand reads 5:30 AM, and the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows is still caught between night and day, that liminal space where shadows might be salvation or damnation.

He's on his back, one arm thrown over his head, the sheets riding low on his hips, revealing the collection of scars I've traced with my fingers, my tongue, my teeth.

The early morning light streaming through the windows turns his skin golden, highlights every mark of violence that tells his story.

The newest marks are mine—scratches down his back that have barely healed, a bite mark on his shoulder that's turned purple-blue, the imprint of my fingers on his hips.

Evidence of what we've become to each other.

Evidence that would get us both killed if my father knew.

I’ve done what I’ve needed thus far, fed information to Vincent, hoping it would buy me more time—and it has.

But, I’ve never done this.

I’ve never wanted to not kill a mark… but I don’t want to kill Varrick.

I want to devour him.

He looks younger in sleep, less dangerous.

The harsh lines around his eyes soften, the perpetual tension in his jaw releases.

It's a lie, of course.

Varrick Bane is always dangerous, even when he’s sleeping.

Maybe especially then, because this is when I see him vulnerable, human, lovable.

Especially to me.

I slip out of bed carefully, my bare feet silent on the cold hardwood floor.

My body protests—pleasantly sore from last night when he took his time unraveling me, when he mapped every inch of my skin like he was memorizing me for the war we both know is coming.

I grab his shirt from the floor, slip it on.

It smells like him—expensive cologne and gunpowder and something uniquely Varrick that makes my chest tight.

In the bathroom, I avoid my reflection at first, brushing my teeth, splashing cold water on my face, going through the motions of normalcy.

But eventually, I have to look.

The woman in the mirror is a stranger—soft where I should be sharp, warm where I should be cold.

My eyes have lost that dead quality my father cultivated so carefully over years of training, years of killing, years of being nothing but a weapon in designer clothing.

I look alive.

I look like a woman in?—

No. I can't even think it. Can't give it that power.

But the word echoes anyway: Love.

I'm in love with Varrick Bane.

The man I'm supposed to kill.

The man whose death will either free my sister or condemn us both.

The man who knows exactly what I am and wants me anyway.

In the kitchen, I make coffee with mechanical precision, trying to rebuild walls that Varrick tears down with every touch, every knowing look, every "ruin" that rolls off his tongue like a prayer.

The espresso machine—probably worth more than most people's cars—hisses and steams, filling the penthouse with the smell of expensive coffee beans.

I've gotten used to luxury these three weeks.

Gotten used to Egyptian cotton sheets and marble countertops, and views that stretch to the mountains.

Gotten used to being treated like I matter.

That's the most dangerous thing of all.

The city sprawls below, Vancouver waking up to another day of legitimate business layered over criminal enterprise.

I can see the port from here, where Varrick's shipments come in under cover of darkness.

The financial district where he launders money through shell companies.

The clubs that serve as fronts for darker dealings.

An empire built on blood and brutality, and somehow I've ended up at the center of it.

Somewhere out there, my father is waiting for news of Varrick's death.

Three weeks without a kill—it's unprecedented for me.

The longest I've ever taken was six days, and that was only because the target was in witness protection.

Father must be getting impatient, suspicious.

Or worse—he's planning something.

Somewhere, Maya is probably in training, learning to be what I am.

The thought makes me sick.

My baby sister, sweet Maya, who still believes in good things, being shaped into a killer.

Having her innocence stripped away layer by layer until there's nothing left but sharp edges and dead eyes.

What I was.

What I'm supposed to be.

What I can never be again after Varrick.

"You're thinking too loud." His voice comes from behind me, rough with sleep and something else.

Concern, maybe. Or possession.

I don't turn, keeping my eyes on the city below. "Just enjoying the view."

"Liar." His arms come around me from behind, and I hate how I instantly relax into him, how my body recognizes his as home. "You're pulling away again. Have been for three days."

He's too perceptive.

He sees too much, knows me too well.

It's going to get us both killed.

"I'm right here," I say, but we both know physical proximity isn't what he means.

"Your body is. The rest of you is already halfway out the door." He turns me to face him, and those dark eyes see straight through every defense I'm desperately trying to reconstruct. "What did your father do? What new threat did he make?"

"Nothing. There's been no contact."

His eyes narrow, reading the fear I can't quite hide. "And that scares you more than his threats would."

Damn him for being right.

My father’s silence is more terrifying than his rage.

It means he's planning something, or he knows something, or both.

Two weeks without word from him or Vincent is unprecedented.

The calm before a storm that will destroy everything we've built in this penthouse, this bubble of impossible happiness.

"He's never gone this long without checking in," I admit, turning back to the coffee, needing something to do with my hands. "Vincent usually contacts me every few days. This silence... it's wrong."

"Maybe they're giving you space to work."

I laugh, bitter and sharp. "That’s rich. My father doesn't give space. He takes it. Controls it. This is something else."

My phone buzzes on the counter, making us both tense.

Unknown number, but I recognize the pattern—three rings, hang up, call back.

Family code.

My blood turns to ice.

"I need to take this," I say.

Varrick releases me immediately, but I can feel his attention, sharp as a blade.

He knows the game, knows I'm balancing on a knife's edge between two worlds. "Be careful, Ruin."

The pet name is a reminder and a warning.

I'm still dangerous, even if I'm his.

I answer on the second ring. "Yes?"

"Neutral ground. One hour. Metrotown parking garage, level three." The voice is familiar but unexpected—Bastian, my cousin.

Not Vincent.

That's... concerning.

Bastian is younger, hungrier, more eager to prove himself to my father.

More unpredictable.

"Understood."

The line goes dead.

Varrick is watching me, reading every micro-expression, every tell I haven't learned to hide from him.

"They're checking on you," he says.

It’s not a question.

"It's been three weeks. They want a progress report." I set down my coffee cup, my hand surprisingly steady. "It's Bastian, not Vincent. That's not good."

"Your cousin." It's not a question.

Of course, he knows about Bastian, probably knows about every member of the Cross family tree. "The one who thinks he should be Theodore's heir instead of you."

"I'm not Theodore's heir. I'm his weapon."

"You're more than that, and everyone knows it. Especially Bastian." He catches my wrist as I move past him. "You could not go."

"And they'd come here. Or go after Maya." I meet his eyes, willing him to understand. "I have to maintain the illusion a little longer."

"How much longer, Sienna?" His use of my real name stops me cold.

He only uses it when he's serious, when the masks are completely off. "How many more weeks before you have to choose?"

"I've already chosen," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "I'm just trying to find a way for us both to survive it."

He pulls me against him, kisses me with a desperation that matches my own.

When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine. "Whatever happens, whatever they threaten, remember—you're mine now. And I protect what's mine."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I whisper, then pull away before I confess everything—the timeline, the threats, the impossible situation we're in.

I dress carefully for the meeting—jeans that allow movement, a leather jacket that conceals weapons, boots that can run or fight.

I strap a knife to my thigh, another to my ankle, a gun to the small of my back.

Varrick watches from the doorway, memorizing every weapon, every tell. "Three hours," he says. "If you're not back in three hours, I'm coming for you."

"Varrick—"

"Non-negotiable." His voice is steel. "Three hours, girl."

The parking garage is a concrete tomb, all shadows and echoes and the smell of old car oil and decay.

Level three is mostly empty at this time of day—a few scattered cars belonging to early morning shoppers or overnight workers.

Bastian is already there, leaning against a black sedan, smoking one of those imported cigarettes he thinks makes him look sophisticated.

He's trying too hard, as always—expensive suit that doesn't quite fit right, too much product in his hair, cologne that announces his presence before he enters a room.

He's my father’s nephew, my cousin by blood, though family means nothing in our world except shared sins and potential betrayals.

He's younger than me by two years, but acts like he owns the world.