Page 82 of The Final Contract

He keeps giving me that look, like he’s about to say something heavy and then pulls it back, like he thinks I’m not ready to hear it.

He dresses first, tugging his shirt down over the lines of his stomach, and offers, “I’ll call down. Get us breakfast from the restaurant in the building.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. One of the guards wheels the cart inside, nodding at me before stepping back into the hall.

I’m starving, and curiosity has me eager to see what Killian ordered. My hands make quick work of the first silver dome.

At first, I can’t tell what I’m looking at.

The mound beneath the cloche doesn’t make sense—pale, stringy, soft-looking. But it only takes a second for my brain to catch up. For my stomach to drop.

It’s hair. Blonde hair. And a lot of it.

My scream rips free, high and raw, as I jerk my hands back. The dome clatters from my fingers, crashing to the floor. Tufts of cut hair spill out, sliding across the white tiles like dead things.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, backing away.

Killian’s faster. He yanks me behind him, shoving me against the counter with his body as a shield. His hand fists at his side, the other already reaching for his phone.

The plate underneath comes into view as the hair shifts. The word carved in red, smeared thick across the porcelain.

LIAR.

My stomach heaves. My knees go weak.

Killian’s already moving, voice sharp as steel. “Inside. Now!” he barks, and the guard at the door rushes in, scanning the room for threats.

Killian’s dialing even as he pushes me farther back, putting the guard between us and the cart. His voice is clipped, lethal.“Get someone to sweep the kitchen and service corridors. Find out who intercepted the order.”

I press a trembling hand to my mouth, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I think it might burst. Hair. It’s her hair. Sylvia’s. Oh my God?—

Killian curses viciously and stabs at his phone again, barking into the line. “Lucian—do you have eyes on Sylvia?”

I hold my breath, every nerve stretched to breaking, until I hear the faint rumble of Lucian’s voice bleeding through. Killian’s shoulders loosen a fraction, though his eyes stay hard. Relief ripples through me, but it’s thin, fragile—a thread ready to snap.

“She’s safe?” Killian demands. His chest heaves. “Good. Keep her that way. I’m sending over a picture.” He flips the call to speaker, his thumb already moving fast on the screen.

The silence in the room hums with tension, broken only by my uneven breathing.

Killian’s jaw clenches, muscles tight. “Keep someone glued to her until I say otherwise. He spotted the decoy yesterday.” His gaze flicks down to the floor, to the hair that still curls like straw around the plate. “And this is his message.”

The plate’s red scrawl burns into my vision—LIAR.

It sears through me, the word twisting in my head until it feels branded there. My throat closes, bile threatening. My hands shake so badly I have to press them against the counter to stay upright.

I can’t stop staring at it. Can’t stop imagining scissors, a knife, someone’s hands in Sylvia’s hair while she sat helpless.

And the thought that it could’ve been me—should’ve been me—makes the room tilt sideways.

Killian’s hand finds mine, strong and unyielding. “Angel. Look at me. Not at that.” His voice is a command, rough and low.

I tear my eyes from the plate, dragging them up to him. His steel-gray stare pins me, steadies me.

But nothing will erase the word from my mind. Nothing will stop the echo of it, painted in red.

Liar.

Killian’s hand tightens on mine, voice steady even though I can hear the fury vibrating under it. “It’s not real, angel. Sylvia’s fine. This is just meant to scare you.”