Page 16 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

And, on top of it all, my father has been grooming him to take over parts of the operation, and he's eager to prove himself.

Too eager.

Desperate men make mistakes, but they also make messes.

"Cousin," he greets, flicking ash at my feet in a gesture meant to show disrespect. "You look... different ."

"Three weeks undercover will do that."

He pushes off from the car, circles me slowly like a predator that doesn't realize it's prey.

I force myself to stand still, to show no weakness, no emotion, no indication that I'm anything other than my father’s perfect soldier.

But inside, my mind is calculating angles, distances, the three different ways I could kill him before he could scream.

"You smell like him," Bastian comments, stopping too close, invading my personal space deliberately.

"I'm supposed to," I defend, keeping my voice level. "It's part of the cover, remember?"

"No." He leans in, inhales near my neck, and I suppress the urge to break his nose.

His breath is hot and smells like cigarettes and the whiskey he probably needed for courage. "You smell of him. Like you belong to him. Like he's marked his territory. Like you're his whore instead of Daddy’s perfect little weapon."

"Don't be dramatic, Bastian. It doesn’t suit you."

"Your father’s worried you're in too deep, that you’re going to flip.

Three weeks, no kill. That's not like you, Sienna.

" His hand comes up to touch my face, fingers trailing along my jaw, and I let him even though my skin crawls.

"The famous Cross killer, reduced to playing house with the enemy. What would your mother think?"

The mention of my mother is a calculated way of hurting me.

She died when I was twelve—Father’s bullet in her head when he found out about her hunger games, about the way she was abusing us… but our father abused us both in different ways.

Bastian knows this. He's trying to provoke me.

"My mother is dead," I say flatly. "Her opinions are irrelevant."

"True. But your father's opinions? Very relevant. And he thinks you've forgotten what you are."

"I know exactly what I am."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you look like a woman who's been fucked into compliance. Varrick Bane must be very talented to turn Theodore's best killer into his pet."

The slap comes from nowhere—his hand connecting with my cheek hard enough to snap my head to the side.

I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my mouth.

The ring on his finger—a gaudy gold thing with the Cross family crest—has split the skin on my cheekbone.

"There," he says, satisfied, watching blood well up on my face. "Now you look more like yourself. Your father wants proof you haven't turned. Intel. Real intel, not the breadcrumbs you've been feeding Vincent."

My hand goes to my jacket pocket where the flash drive sits like a lead weight.

I've been carrying it for days, hoping I'd never have to use it, knowing I would.

It contains everything about Will Romano—Varrick's mentor, his father figure, the man who saved him more times than anyone can count.

Safe houses, personal schedule, guard rotations, even his medical conditions.

Everything needed to capture or kill him.

The betrayal tastes like acid as I pull it out, hold it between us like the weapon it is.

"Will Romano's complete profile," I say, my voice steady despite the self-loathing coursing through me. "This is worth more than anything Vincent has gathered in three years."

Bastian takes it, turns it over in his fingers like he's assessing its weight. "Romano, hm? Bane's precious mentor. This will hurt him."

"That's the point, isn't it?"

"Is it? Or are you hoping warning him will earn his forgiveness when he finds out you're the source?"

"He won't find out."

"Everyone finds out eventually, cousin. Secrets have a way of surfacing, especially in our world.

" He pockets the drive, but his eyes narrow.

"This doesn't buy you infinite time. Your father expects results.

One month. Varrick Bane dies within one month, or Theodore sends me to do it.

And you know I won't be gentle about it.

Might even make you watch while I handle your sister first. Sweet little Maya. Seventeen is such a tender age."

"One month," I agree through gritted teeth, imagining all the ways I could kill him right now, make it look like an accident or a rival family's hit.

"Good." He steps closer, too close, his hand sliding down my arm possessively. "You know, I've always wondered what's so special about you. Why your father think of his eldest daughter so highly. Maybe I should test if you've gone soft. See if Bane has ruined you for other men."

His hand moves to my waist, starting to slide lower, fingers pressing against my hip. "I doubt your father would mind. Might even approve of keeping things in the family."

I react without thinking—grab his wrist, twist until I hear the satisfying crack of bones breaking.

He screams, drops to his knees, the sound echoing through the parking garage.

"Touch me again, cousin, and I'll mail your balls to my father myself. One at a time. With detailed notes about how long you screamed."

"You fucking bitch!" He's cradling his broken wrist, tears streaming down his face, all pretense of sophistication gone. "Your father will hear about this."

"Yes, he will. Tell him his weapon is still sharp. Tell him Varrick Bane will be dead within the month. And tell him if he sends anyone else to test me, they'll come back in pieces. Smaller pieces than the ones I usually leave."

I leave him there, whimpering on the concrete like the child he really is, and drive back to the penthouse with my hands shaking so hard I can barely grip the steering wheel.

Will Romano is going to die because of the information I just handed over.

A good man, one of the few in this life, and I've just signed his death warrant, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

It’s either him or me… and I refuse to fall to this life.

The weight of it sits on my chest like a stone, making it hard to breathe.

The city passes in a blur of gray and glass.

I take the long way back, needing time to compose myself, to rebuild the mask that Varrick sees through anyway.

But there's no hiding this.

The blood on my cheek, the guilt in my eyes, the weight of betrayal in every line of my body.

The penthouse is quiet when I return, but I know Varrick is here.

I can feel him, like gravity, like magnetism, like the pull of the moon on the tides.

He's in his office, I know without looking.

Probably watching the security feeds, probably saw me sit in the car for ten minutes in the parking garage, trying to stop shaking.

I find him at his desk, working on something, but he looks up the moment I enter.

His eyes immediately go to my cheek where Bastian hit me, where blood has dried in rusty streaks, and something dangerous flashes across his face.

The kind of dangerous that ends with bodies in dumpsters, with entire family lines erased.

"Who?" The word is quiet, controlled, which makes it more terrifying.

"It doesn't matter."

He's on his feet, crossing to me in three strides that eat up the distance between us.

His fingers ghost over the mark, gentle where Bastian was violent, and the contrast makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed.

"It matters to me." His thumb brushes the edge of the cut, comes away with fresh blood.

He stares at it like it personally offends him. "Name, now."

"My cousin. Bastian. He wanted to make sure I remembered what I am."

"And what are you?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning.

What am I?

My father’s weapon?

Varrick's lover?

A traitor to both?

A woman drowning in impossibilities?

"Compromised," I admit, the word breaking something inside me. "Completely compromised."

I can't tell him about the flash drive, about Will, about the betrayal I've just committed.

The blood oath we swore weeks ago burns in my memory—no lies between us.

But this isn't lying, it's omitting.

It's protecting him from the truth until I can figure out how to fix it.

But I can show him something else, something real.

I kiss him with desperation that has nothing to do with what I’ve been tasked to do and everything to do with need.

My need for him, for this, for something that isn't built on lies and blood and inevitable betrayal.

He responds immediately, backing me against his desk, papers scattering to the floor like white flags of surrender.

"Sienna—"

"Don't talk," I plead against his mouth. "Just... I need you . Not the game, not the scheming. You."

He pulls back enough to look at me, really look at me, and what he sees makes him exhale sharply. "You're scared."

"Terrified," I admit, the truth scraping my throat raw.

"Of them?"

"Of this. Of us. Of what I'm becoming with you."

Of the future that gets darker every day.

This time is different from all the others.

There's desperation, yes, but also something deeper.

Something that feels dangerously close to love.

When he carries me to the bedroom, when he removes my clothes with reverent fingers that shake slightly, when he kisses every mark Bastian left like he can erase it with his mouth, I understand that I'm lost.

Completely, irrevocably lost.

We move together with the urgency of people who know time is running out, even if only one of us knows exactly how little time we have left.

Every touch is a goodbye we're not ready to say.

Every kiss is a promise we might not be able to keep.

When he says my name like a prayer, when I trace the scars I've memorized like a map home, we're not predator and prey anymore.

We're just two broken people trying to build something whole from the pieces.

The afternoon light slants through the windows, painting us gold and shadow, and I try to memorize this moment—the weight of him, the taste of his skin, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of poisonous.