Page 101 of Silent Schemes

Not just any gun—a .45, chrome-plated, engraved with the Cross family crest.

The same gun he used to kill my mother.

I was there, hiding behind the door, watching through the crack as he put three bullets in her head for what she was doing to us—the hunger games.

The weight of it is familiar and horrifying, like holding my own death warrant.

"You'll do it in front of his man," Father instructs, his voice carrying so every soldier can hear. This is a lesson for them too—even his daughter isn't above the family law. "So everyone knowsthe Cross family broke the King. That love is weakness, and weakness is death."

I take the gun, check the chamber automatically.

Fully loaded. Safety off. Seven rounds, though I'll only need three.

My training kicks in, muscle memory from thousands of hours of practice.

The gun feels like an extension of my arm, perfectly balanced, recently cleaned.

Father always takes care of his weapons, whether they're made of metal or flesh.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Need to hear it.

Need Maya to hear it, to understand why I'm about to do the unthinkable.

Father nods to Vincent, who pulls out a knife, tests the edge with his thumb.

A thin line of blood appears, and he smiles. "Then sweet Maya learns what real pain feels like. Slowly. While you watch. While your lover watches. Everyone gets a show either way."

He moves closer to Maya, the blade catching the harsh industrial lights. "I've always wanted to see if she screams like her sister never did. You never gave me that satisfaction, Sienna. No matter what I did. But Maya... she's softer. Gentler. I bet she'll sing for us."

Maya makes a sound—not quite a whimper, strangled before it fully forms.

She knows better than to beg.

Father hates begging almost as much as he hates weakness.

But I see her throat working, swallowing fear, and her hands are trembling despite being clasped in front of her.

"I'll do it," I say, and something dies in Maya's eyes. The last of her innocence, perhaps. Or her faith in me. Both arecasualties I'll carry forever, added to the collection of ghosts I've accumulated over the years.

"Of course you will." Father smirks, stepping back. "You're my daughter. My greatest creation. You'll do what needs to be done, just as I taught you."

The minutes tick by like hours.

I position myself where my father wants me—center stage in his theatrical execution.

The concrete beneath my feet is stained with old blood, layers of it, like geological strata of violence.

How many have died here?

How many more will?

Maya stands to my left, Vincent's hand on her shoulder possessively, knife visible.

The thirty soldiers form a semi-circle, all guns drawn but not aimed.

Yet.