Page 21 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Hello, Heir

Warrick

The stone doors of my apartment slam shut as I pull on my leather jacket. Below, Fang’s Edge roars. Lightning coils buzz along the walls, and the heavy thrash of a band vibrates through the iron balconies of the club as I make my way to Dacre.

The crony stands on guard, hands clasped with his back to emerald curtains.

The only Serpents allowed on the top floor are those I trust to keep what’s behind those curtains a secret.

Sleep. Food. Water. Beds. The bare fucking minimum I can offer to the Skin forced to be on sale, but the most I can get away with.

I clap a hand on Dacre’s shoulder. “The kids all eat?”

“Not much.”

We glare out from the balcony.

Chained to poles along the edge of the club are the adults.

They’re the cheapest thrills because they don’t run fast, and they offer an ease of submission.

Most were bred into the Skin Trade. They wouldn’t know independence if she took them to bed, nor would many of them care.

They don’t bite the hand that feeds, fucks, or pays.

They submit, and in consolation, they live.

Above them, on the second floor, are the teens. More desired. A middle-tier offering and favored for anything wicked. They fight. Many still have an ample kick. It’s where most offers are made. It’s a spend, and to many, it’s worth it.

But nothing is comparable to the children.

Swinging in cages from the rafters, they wail into gags.

We say they’re for sale, but I don’t let anyone close.

I wish I could do the same for the rest, but setting expensive prices on children is more believable to The Serpent than doing the same to the adults and teens.

Russell even liked the idea when I ran it past him a decade ago.

I was forced to oversee this shit hole, desperate to manipulate him into thinking I was doing his bidding.

For the most part, I’ve succeeded, but it’s not really a win when there’s kids still in cages, is it?

There’s been a few buyers that come in with chests filled with coins, drugs or both—willing to pay whatever they can to secure young Skin. They see the premium cost as meaning premium product.

I take their fucking money, and I slit their fucking throats.

“Shut it down without me tonight,” I tell Dacre.

He lifts a dark brow and pinches my leather jacket. “The fuck is this?”

I unclip my Heir mask from my waist, offering him a tired smile. “Yours for the night.” I shove it into his chest and he blinks down in shock. “Use it wisely.”

“Oh, fuck yes.” Dacre flashes a wicked smile and tugs the mask on. It glitters in the low light of the cub, its diamonds flashing. “Do you know how many free drinks this’ll get me?”

“Very aware,” I laugh and walk backward toward the stairs. I point at him. “Don’t drink without backup in place. I want this club closed on time, Henson.”

“Where you going?” he calls after me.

“Just making the rounds. I’ll be back by sunrise,” I say and weave downstairs.

The crowd thickens, packed shoulder to shoulder.

The Pit opens wide, a fighting ring sunk into the center of Fang’s Edge.

It’s smeared with fresh blood, civilians killing and shouting bids over the screaming band.

Dancers grind around The Pit and against the stage at its back, cables cracking with lightning overhead.

I push outside, rain slicing down through Synlon in jagged sheets. I duck my head against the cold of the storm, raising the hood of my jacket as I splash into an alley.

Shop windows are still broken in, corpses rotting along the street from the aftermath of The Bid. Otherwise, nothing’s changed. Synlon is still Synlon. Embracing the Skin Trade because it’s our normal, even if normal is killing people.

Depressing.

Fortunately, I have an angel to meet.

Neon leaks across puddles, staining them red, green, then blue. I drop into the trench, boots sloshing through filth, and merge with the crush of bodies drawn toward the Underground.

I slip into a shadowed alcove inside the tunnel entrance and wait.

Every flicker of dark hair, every green gaze—my pulse spikes.

One day. Twenty-four fucking hours without my vicious, and I swear I’m losing my Godsdamn mind. Not hearing that voice. Not seeing that sly, lethal smile. It’s like starving on the edge of a feast.

The Bond creeps under my skin, beating with a phantom rhythm. Her heartbeat . I didn’t sleep last night. Just stared at the ceiling of my apartment like some lovesick teen, feeling every little twinge and flutter along the threads that bind our souls.

Gods .

I press two fingers to my mouth.

Our kiss. Her mouth on mine. Her body bare and furious and begging.

It cycles through my head, every second branded into me. Her heat. Her grip. Her taste.

My cock doesn’t even ache anymore. It resents me.

Why in the ever-living fuck did I let her leave ? There were chains in those stables. It would have been so simple.

My nostrils flare in amusement when one of the memories she stole crashes forward at the thought. Her over my shoulder on the beach.

Then her knee in my crotch.

Never mind. No kidnapping the trained assassin.

I frown at the ground. Or should I?

No. No .

I rip my hood back. Hop from foot to foot. Shake out my hands. Try to think of anything else.

Rayze .

Is this love? I don’t think so. It’s too soon. Maybe tomorrow.

I fall back against the sharp ridges of the tunnel wall and peer through the gray downpour at the tunnel’s entrance.

A flicker of blue catches my eye before a vial exchanges hands in the shadows.

Volt.

My fists clench.

I don’t like that shit crawling through my streets, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it until Russell is gone.

I tug a black feathered mask from the interior pocket of my jacket, tying it tight around my eyes. It takes three tries, my fingers trembling.

Gods, fuck. I’m nervous.

I close my eyes and deepen my breaths. I tell myself she won’t come. She hasn’t yet. Maybe she won’t. Maybe this whole thing was a cruel test. A strategic move, I’m sure, to see how easily I falter.

Never. I’ll never falter if it means giving up on her.

“Hello, Heir.”

My lips curve with an easy smile, the sultry notes of her voice as thick as manacles against my wrists. I peer through the holes of my mask at the lean, feminine figure before me.

Rayze pulls from the opposite wall’s shadows and closes the distance between us with ease.

Confidence oozes off the damn woman, her black trench wide open to display a black dress and a matching corset.

Small daggers swing from golden lacing, thick straps at her shoulders tugging her breasts together in a way that should be criminal. The dress stops at her mid-thigh, and—

My mouth dries. Those legs belong wrapped around me until the end of my days.

“Like what you see?” she mocks and tilts her head, her short bob of dark hair tilting with it.

“Fuck me.”

Her eyes widen.

“Now.”

A laugh bubbles out of her. “Gods, does that work for you?”

I grin, my gaze devouring her smirk. She’s better than memory—sharper, deadlier, wrapped in temptation. I don’t stand a fucking chance.

Her iron bow is snapped into a harness against her spine, the flash of arrows stitched like ribs inside her coat. Red neon glosses over her gear like blood over an altar, and I’m bleeding. Slain.

The Bond tightens and whines.

“Warrick,” she says, her frustration breathtaking.

Fuck. I’m not surviving this, and I’m not even sure I mind.