Page 59

The warehouse reeks of a potent mix of oil, rust, and blood.

A stench so thick it clings to your skin.

It’s the kind of hidden reserve no one stumbles upon by chance.

Nestled behind neglected shipyards and encircled by chain-link fences, it's a zone no cop would dare enter without ample reinforcement. That's precisely why I chose this location. It’s the perfect stage for a dramatic statement. Which is exactly why I brought them here. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that revenge isn’t enough… you have to make it memorable.

Suspended by his wrists, the Ferrara runner hangs like a broken marionette, his shirt drenched in blood, which has dried into a crusty, cracked map across his temple. He teeters on the edge of consciousness, his head drooping forward, yet he clings to life. For now.

Dante stands to the side, arms folded across his chest, his jaw like granite with tension.

“You’re sure he didn’t talk?” I enquire, my voice a low, unwavering murmur.

Dante gives a single, resolute nod. “He said Nicolai assured him it’d be quick. Deliver the message, then vanish. He had no idea they’d abandon him to bleed out at our gates.”

I pace in front of the bastard slowly, every step deliberate and controlled. My shoulder stings from the movement, fire lacing down my arm, but I ignore it. Pain is a reminder. A tether and I welcome it.

The warehouse is too quiet.

That kind of stillness that hums with violence, just waiting to snap.

I watch as the Ferrara runner hangs limp from the chains overhead, his bare chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. Blood trails down his torso in slow, sticky streams. The crude letters carved into his flesh are fresh and raw.

JORDYN.

Six jagged letters, slashed with a trembling hand. The cuts weren’t meant to kill him—they’re meant to deliver a message. And they did. Loud and clear.

Dante paled when he found him dumped at the west gates, barely breathing, the carving still oozing. And I, God, I didn’t even see red. I’d gone colder than that. Colder than I have been in a long fucking time.

Because it’s not just a name. It’s my warning.

“She didn’t even do anything,” the runner gasps out now, his voice rasping through blood in his throat. “I swear to God, I don’t know why he, why he used her?—”

“You keep her name out of your mouth,” I growl, low and lethal.

The blade in my hand is solid, familiar. It grounds me even when the fury wants to strip me bare. My shoulder throbs where skin stretches, but I barely feel it anymore. All I see is her name carved across another man’s chest, like Nicolai owns her.

“He wanted to get your attention,” Dante says from behind me, voice grim. “Looks like he did.”

I nod once, sharp and final.

“He made it personal,” I murmur. “So now I will, too.”

The blade feels heavier than it should.

Not because of the weight, but because of what I’m about to do with it. What I have to do with it.

The runner doesn’t struggle anymore. He knows what’s coming. And honestly? That makes this cleaner. He already made his mistake. He delivered a message with her name carved across his chest like it meant nothing. Like she was something Nicolai could touch.

He was wrong.

“Strip him,” I order.

Dante doesn’t flinch. He nods once and rips the blood-soaked shirt down the middle. The runner winces as the crusted fabric peels from broken skin, revealing six ugly letters still oozing.

JORDYN .

I see red, but I don’t let it control me. No. Rage is only useful when it’s controlled .

I step forward, the steel in my hand glinting under the warehouse lights. The runner’s eyes flick to the blade, then to me. He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He just braces.

Smart fucking boy.

“This isn’t mercy,” I murmur, lowering the edge to his chest. “This is a message.”

I press the tip into the J , and begin.

Slow. Methodical. Every stroke of the blade as deliberate as the insult carved into him.

When I’m done, Jordyn’s name is crossed out, blood flooding the lines. And beneath it, fresh and ragged in deep crimson slashes, is a new name.

ARES.

I step back and stare at it. My name bleeding where hers once was. A shield. A threat... a vow.

Dante drapes a dark cloth over the rest of the runner’s torso, leaving the carved message exposed. “How do you want to send it?”

“Publicly,” I answer, voice low. “Put him in front of one of Nicolai’s clubs. Midnight drop. Hang him up if you have to.”

Dante nods.

“Leave this with him.” I toss a scrap of paper onto the floor. Handwritten. Simple. TRY AGAIN. I DARE YOU.

I turn away, shoulder on fire, but I don’t feel it anymore.

All I see is her face. Her voice when she whispered that she still wants me. Her touch. Her tears. And her name, etched into a man’s chest like a possession Nicolai thought he could steal.

He won’t make that mistake again.

Because now, the war is personal.

And I never lose what’s mine.

As soon as I step back into the manor, the silence feels different.

It’s not cold or empty, just still . My boots echo through the hallway, the blood already drying on them, and the scent of gasoline and sweat clings to me.

I should shower. I should clean up the wound on my side that reopened on the drive back.

There’s a lot I should do. But I don’t. I head straight to my room.

Something draws me there, like gravity, instinct, or maybe just the need to see something that hasn't bled out in front of me tonight.

The door opens with a soft creak. And then I pause.

She’s there. Jordyn. Fast asleep on my bed, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek like a scene out of a dream.

Resting on her chest, a perfect grey ball of fluff, is Ladro.

His tiny pink paws twitch with each purring breath, and her other hand rests on his back, fingers entwined in his fur.

A quiet hitch rises in my chest. She’s still wearing the purple dress from this morning, her hair slightly tousled, her face soft and relaxed, as if the world outside this room doesn’t exist. As if she’s safe here, even when she shouldn't be.

Even after everything I told her and everything she knows.

Quietly, I move closer, careful not to make a sound.

Inwardly, too proud to admit that I’m terrified if I breathe too loudly, she might vanish.

That the quiet, impossible peace of this moment will slip between my fingers like smoke.

Her chest rises gently beneath the kitten, her lips slightly parted, eyelashes fluttering at the edge of a dream.

She stayed. Even though I told her to leave.

She stayed, and that splinters something deep inside me.

Carefully, I sit on the edge of the bed, one arm braced on my thigh, the other reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her pretty face.

My hand hovers for a moment, just above her cheek.

But I don’t touch her. Because I still have the blood of the runner stained on my hands, and right now she looks untouched by everything I’ve done, and for just a few more seconds, I want that to stay true.

Ladro stirs before she does.

The little furball lifts his head, ears twitching like he senses me. He blinks sleepily, then does that thing kittens do, stands up on her chest, stretches his tiny legs to full extension, and gives a full-body shake that rattles from the tip of his tail to his whiskers.

It’s adorable. Infuriatingly so, but I smile despite my mood.

Jordyn shifts beneath him with a soft murmur, her brow creasing, hand flexing slightly in Ladro’s fur. She stirs, breath catching as consciousness pulls her to the surface. And then, her eyes blink open.

For a moment, they’re unfocused. Drowsy. The haze of sleep softens the blue of them, and she looks like she’s still halfway in whatever dream she was tangled in.

Then she sees me.

Her whole body stiffens. “Ares.”

My name in her voice, it does something to me I can’t explain. Still sleepy, still breathless, but real and present.

“I told you to go home,” I say quietly, not a question, just a fact. A quiet observation that sits between us like something enshrined.

She pushes up slightly on one elbow, Ladro sliding down into the crook of her arm with a grumble. “I was, but then I came to see how he was doing and... I fell asleep.”

I sigh, narrowing my eyes. “Once again, you didn’t listen to me.”

Her lips part like she’s going to defend herself, but I shake my head.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jordyn studies me for a moment, she’s taken aback by my response. Her eyes scan over my face. “Where did you go?”

My jaw tightens. I don’t answer right away. I don’t lie either.

Instead, I sit down more fully on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her.

“I needed to remind someone what happens when they threaten what’s mine.” Her breath catches, not in horror, but something else. Something she won’t name when her gaze drops and she notices the blood stains on my clothes, arms and hands.

“Uhm,” She swallows hard, and shakes her head. “Is that...”

“Blood?” I nod once. “Yes.”

Jordyn chews on her lip nervously. I can see she has a thousand questions at the ready to fire at me, but instead, she swallows every single one down.

“I saw the supplies,” she murmurs, trying to shift the weight of the moment, glancing toward the kitten. “You bought him everything.”

“I didn’t want him wrecking my furniture,” I mutter, deadpan.

She smiles. Just barely. But it’s real, real enough that it makes my heart flutter.

I look at her then, closely , and for the first time tonight, I breathe.

Not sharp or shallow. Just… breathe .

Like seeing her here, in my bed, with her messy hair and sleepy eyes and that damn cat curled against her, makes the world make sense again.

And fuck, I know I don’t deserve it, but I want it anyway.