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T HE CATACOMBS AREN'T my usual hunting ground. They belong to the dead, and I'm not even talking about skeletons from centuries past. Or ghosts. Anything supernatural would be a lot less scary to deal with, believe me.

Everyone who's ever been on the wrong side of the law knows better than to mess around here. Because these catacombs? They belong to him.

Monsieur Le Dernier.

Mr. Last, in English. As in...he's the last face you'll see, if you're stupid enough to defy his rules.

Like I'm doing now.

Because I have no choice.

Rent's overdue, and Maman's meds won't buy themselves.

There comes a time when one must choose whether to risk death...or have someone else die.

C'est la vie.

But for now, it is time to put such morbid thoughts away and focus. The night is young, and there's much stealing to be done.

Le Dernier is unlike any club I've ever infiltrated. The entrance itself is hidden beneath an unassuming café in the 14th arrondissement, requiring a passcode that changes nightly—a passcode I spent three weeks tracking down. The staircase spirals down twelve meters below street level before opening into a limestone palace of debauchery.

The club honors its macabre setting rather than disguising it. Centuries-old skulls embedded in the walls peer out from behind glass display cases, illuminated by crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains in deep burgundy frame alcoves where the soulless conduct their business away from prying eyes. The music pulses through the stone itself, vibrating in my chest like a second heartbeat.

Even the bar is a masterpiece of dark elegance—black marble veined with gold, bottles arranged by color rather than type, from bloody red to poisonous purple—while the uniformed staff seem more like well-trained assassins than club employees, gliding here and there, their alert gazes not missing a single thing.

I can't help but wonder if the refined horror of this place mirrors how Monsieur Le Dernier deals with his enemies. Is there a way of making one's enemies disappear...elegantly? I'm just asking, for a friend. Just, um, professional curiosity.

Enfin bref. But anyway.

Enough about the eerie beauty of this place. I've wasted too much time as it is, and I've yet to scan the room for potentials.

So, let's see...

An older businessman with the Patek Philippe who hasn't been able to stop staring at my legs. An industrialist whose Vacheron Constantin can cover Maman's treatments for months. And if necessary, that sweet, harmless tech entrepreneur from Silicon Valley. But I do hope not. He seems too nice to be targeted, and I'm no thief without honor.

Now, who to target first?

I consider my options carefully. The businessman has had too much to drink already—sloppy marks make sloppy exits. The entrepreneur is surrounded by friends, making a clean approach difficult. The industrialist, however, stands alone at the bar, just tipsy enough to be confident but not enough to be careless. Perfect .

I decide on the industrialist.

Step one: eye contact.

Step two: let him buy you a drink.

Step three: get close enough to admire his timepiece.

Step four: make it disappear.

Rinse, cycle, repeat.

Most times, stealing doesn't bother me at all. I've successfully fooled myself into thinking I'm Robin Hood's daughter in my past life, and I'm just continuing our family's legacy. I do my research and steal only from evil men.

But sometimes...life happens, and that's when it gets tough.

The American entrepreneur catches my eye across the room, offering a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"First time here?" he asks when I walk past his table. "If you'd like a tour of the place, I'd be honored to show you around. No strings attached—promise."

There are nights like this when there aren't enough evil men in the club I've chosen, and I'm forced to choose. This man is not evil. But he's far from broke either. Will it really be so bad to steal from him?

Oui , my conscience says sadly.

But since it's my mother's life on the line...

Désolé, Monsieur Gentil. I'm sorry, Mr. Nice Guy.

Needs must.

And yet...

Huh?

A waiter suddenly approaches him, saying something under his breath. And then just like that, Mr. Nice Guy leaves, without even a backward glance.

Not good.

Death is on to me, and a chill runs down my spine as I look around. Red flags are everywhere. The bartender keeps glancing up toward the VIP section. Security guards have shifted positions, creating a subtle perimeter around me. The industrialist I've been chatting with is now being engaged by a beautiful hostess who appeared from nowhere. Even the music seems to have changed tempo, becoming more hypnotic, more disorienting.

And the reddest and fairest flag of them all?

Him.

Dark hair. Broad shoulders encased in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire apartment. And a presence so ominous that he has me gulping even from where I'm standing.

The king of the catacombs, in the flesh.

And he's watching me.

****

T HE NIGHT WEARS ON .

I feel like a puppet being made to perform, and I hate it.

But that's the thing about being poor.

Choice is a privilege of the rich. Other times, it's worse, and you realize that choice is nothing but an illusion. This world we live in is only for the rich and powerful.

And poor people like you and me simply exist for their consumption.

Like now.

I can feel his gaze following me wherever I go. But I'm past the point of caring. I have one last mark to hit, and then I'll go. If he wanted me killed, I'd have been dead an eternity ago. But since I'm still alive?

He's toying with me, obviously.

And that's fine.

Play to your heart's content, monsieur.

Ever since coming here, something inside of me seems to have changed. I'm less and less afraid of my mortality while death has become more and more...seductive.

Peu importe. Doesn't matter.

I wrap things up in twenty minutes, my purse nearly bulging with tonight's takings. When I finally emerge from the catacombs, the night air feels purifying, cool and clean against my feverish skin. I shiver, though not entirely from the cold. My heart races strangely when I think of him—of those dark eyes watching my every move from the shadows, assessing, calculating. Hunting.

The walk home takes thirty minutes. Another night, another score. Maman's treatment can continue.

I should be rejoicing, but my skin continues to prickle inexplicably.

My third-floor apartment welcomes me with familiar shabbiness. I've been doing my best to convince myself it's cozy, but this is one area in my life that mind conditioning has not worked to my advantage at all. It's ugly and cramped, period .

I slip out of my heels and am reaching for the deadbolts I installed myself when a massive hand covers my mouth from behind.

The arm around my waist feels like it could crack my ribs without effort. I thrash, but it's pointless. Years of street smarts, and I'm as helpless as a child.

A sweet scent fills my nose—chemical, medicinal. My chemistry knowledge identifies it just as consciousness begins to fade.

Diethyl ether.

My last coherent thought is that I didn't even hear them enter behind me.

****

I WAKE TO THE FAMILIAR ache of bound wrists.

The warehouse around me echoes with emptiness. Unlike the catacombs with their claustrophobic stone walls, this space sprawls endlessly into shadow. Industrial pipes snake across a ceiling lost in darkness. Rusted machinery squats in corners like mechanical sentinels. The air carries rust, old oil, and something else—the sharp tang of fear.

Mine .

A single spotlight illuminates the chair I'm bound to, making the darkness beyond even more impenetrable. Classic interrogation technique. Make the subject feel exposed, vulnerable, while the interrogator remains hidden.

But he isn't hidden.

A man sits across from me, just at the edge of the light.

It's him, of course.

Black suit tailored to perfection against broad shoulders. Black hair that makes me think of ravens' wings. And eyes that are just as blue as mine, surprisingly.

To describe him as beautiful would be an insult. Because there's so much more to this man than the chiseled perfection of his face or the virile muscularity of his build. There are just so many layers to this man. Power cloaked in mystery. Light and darkness in an endless battle. And in his startlingly blue eyes, I see...something I'm not quite ready to label.

Not just yet.

The air between us crackles with something I don't understand—electricity, danger, attraction?

Ne sois pas bête, Li. Don't be silly.

"You committed a crime in my property."

The king of the catacombs has finally spoken, and his voice slides through the air like a dagger wrapped in silk. Soft and smooth, but deadly as ever.

But even so...

I blink at him in sham innocence.

There is no way he is going to make me admit to theft, just like that.

" Désolé, monsieur, " I whisper. "I don't know what—"

He holds his hand up, and of course I shut up.

"My people found this in your bedroom."

A nod, and one of the men flanking his side reveals one of the watches I've stolen.

Oh well.

Since there is no point playing innocent now—

"I planned to give it back," I say piously, going for broke.

A lazy smile slowly curves over his lips, and my heart actually races.

Oh dear.

"And I'm supposed to believe that, of course."

"Why shouldn't you? Is it too difficult to believe that I've had a change of heart? It's my first time to steal—"

His security team—every one of them actually coughs—but I pretend not to hear this.

Quelle impolitesse. Such rudeness.

"And I'm clearly not good at it."

"Clearly." He nods again, and another one of his guards steps forward, this time revealing the rest of my takings.

Unfortunately for him, I am really good at pretending not to notice what I do not wish to see.

"Please, monsieur. I just want to live a normal life from now on. I just want to...start fresh."

His eyes gleam, and its shade is truly just like mine that I'm starting to worry. What if...this man turns out to be some brother from another father that I never knew of? Stepbrother romances, I have no beef with, but real incest? Hard pass, for sure.

"Funny you should say that," he murmurs, "since it's exactly what I've decided to offer you."

He rises to his feet, unfolding like a dark promise, and he's so much taller than I feared.

"But first..." Blue eyes that are so like mine turn speculative. "You know who I am, oui ?"

I don't say a word, but my silence proves futile.

"Your face is an open book, ma petite, " he says gently. "So now, let me ask you again, and this time, donne-moi une réponse, s'il te pla?t."

I taste fear for the first time.

Because like everyone else, I've heard all the stories about him.

And one thing they have in common?

It is never a good sign when Monsieur Le Dernier says 'please'.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." I don't even know why I refused to admit this in the first place. Subconscious self-sabotage, perhaps? You can't live a life of crime in Paris and not know of Monsieur Le Dernier . You rarely ever see him, but you know he's everywhere. You don't ever hear his real name mentioned. But you know he's real because of the dead bodies that keep turning up. And the one thing they all have in common?

They thought they could handle him.

They were wrong.

Like me.

A heavy sense of numbness blankets my body as I watch him walk toward me. Behind him, his men are quiet and expressionless. Witnesses who don't give a whit even if they're about to witness me sacrificed or burned at the stakes. I think I'm already dead to them either way.

And as for their king...

His steps have come to a halt, and my eyes lift to his. I wait for my fear to devolve into terror, but it doesn't.

"You have two choices, ma petite. "

He wraps his fingers around my throat as he speaks, but my pulse doesn't even race, and all I notice is how his accent has become more pronounced. More...old-money French than Parisian.

The fingers around my throat start to tighten, and I start thinking about the weirdest things.

Things like how his callused fingertips make me think of violence and elegance. Or how his proximity has finally started sinking in, and my pulse is now racing for all the wrong reasons.

"You pay for your life..."

How is that the same as starting fresh?

"Or—" His fingers tighten just enough to make breathing difficult. "You surrender it to me..."

He loosens his grip to cup my chin, and my breath catches as his thumb traces my bottom lip.

Dear oh dear.

My body is starting to feel weirder than ever, and the way I'm reacting to him is so, so wrong in so many levels. I should be screaming or shaking in fear right now. But instead I feel—

"Through marriage."

—like I should ask what he's just said.

"Make your choice, Liana."

Because surely, I couldn't have heard him right.

Right?

My lips part in confusion.

Which then turns into shock when he actually slips one finger inside of my mouth.

"Suck it."

No! Never! As if!

But instead...I actually find myself obeying him.

I'm sucking his finger like I was born to do this.

And when I look up and see the dark pleasure smoldering in eyes that are as blue as mine—

Oh no.

He slowly pulls his finger out of my mouth, and I actually feel empty.

I think I've lost my mind.

"You've made the right choice, ma petite. "

I actually haven't given him an answer, but why bother arguing over semantics? He commanded me to suck his finger, and I obeyed without question. I might as well have told him I'm psyched to be his baby mama—

Maman.

I can't believe I forgot about my mother.

" Monsieur. " My voice comes out in a croak. My mother has always been my Achilles' heel and always will be. "My mother—"

"Is being cared for."

He says the words so, so simply.

"Her nurse has been informed that you're spending the night with a friend. By tomorrow, she'll know the truth—that her daughter has married well."

That he clearly doesn't understand what those words mean to me.

Maman...is being cared for.

The ropes around my wrists suddenly loosen. One of his men has moved behind me, freeing me on some silent command from his master.

"The ceremony will take place immediately," Monsieur Le Dernier says.

I know I should be terrified. I'm about to marry the most feared man in Paris. A man who uses the same hand to threaten me with strangulation one moment and touch me with a gentlessness that bordered on affection the next.

That's the kind of man my future husband is..but who cares?

Maman...is being cared for.

I always thought I could die happy once I've taken care of Maman. And the reason I have to remind myself every day that I still have a reason to live. And perhaps, that's still true. Only...it's not death that's about to take me away from her. But something just as dark. And inescapable.

But also...something more reliable than the God whom I used to believe in.

Because if You're real, then why do You let bad things happen to good people like Maman?

"Stand."

My legs are unsteady after hours bound to the chair, but my future husband doesn't offer his hand to steady me.

Unsurprising.

One of his men approaches with what appears to be a garment bag.

"Your dress for the wedding," he murmurs.

" Merci ."

It's the only thing to say, since I've never been the type to cry over spilled milk.

I took a risk, stealing in one of his clubs, and now I'm paying the price with marriage.

C'est la vie.