Callum’s smile reflected in his eyes. “That’s what got me kicked out of the Veyra training program. Too sentimental, and not enough of whatever the fuck they wanted me to be.”
Greyson remembered the first time he and Callum met. Late-night tactical drills, both of them exhausted, masks fogged with sweat, neither willing to let the other win. Callum would sneak rations to the janitorial staff, would hack Heart surveillance just to prove that he could. That kindness, mixed with his brilliant mind, and firm hand, was what made Callum dangerous.
“You ever regret not finishing?” Greyson asked.
Callum shook his head. “I get to run my own show. Only now, I serve the liquor instead of the lies. Pleasure instead of death . . . for the most part.”
Greyson flinched at the word. His only job was to serve death on that platform.
Greyson studied him. “You do more good in this club than all the Veyra combined.”
“Tell that to my father,” Callum said, voice brittle. “Last time I saw him, he told me I was a parasite. Feeding off the city’s vices.” He laughed, a hollow sound. “I told him it runs in the family.”
Greyson’s lips curled. “I’m sure that went over well.”
Callum shrugged. “He didn’t disown me. Guess he’s still hoping I’ll make a scandal big enough to get myself shot by you on live stream. Until then, he gets free drinks and plausible deniability.”
Greyson swallowed back bile at the thought, the idea that his best friend could do something to land himself on that platform, and he would be the one ordered to take his life. Greyson would never do it. He would, in fact, die to protect Callum if it came down to it.
For a time, neither spoke. The music from the club below swelled, muffled by the double glass, but still present, like the ache in his chest.
Callum broke the silence. “So, what now?”
Greyson stared at the mask stand on the far shelf, empty except for a single antique specimen—blackened iron, a relic of the first generation.
Slowly he stood. “Now, I go to my family dinner. Pretend I care about the Vow, and try not to think about what comes after.”
Callum nodded, rising as well. “And whatdoescome after?”
Greyson hesitated. “I don’t know. But something has to change.”
Callum stepped in front of him again, this time closer. He pressed a hand to Greyson’s chest, right over his sternum. Greyson could feelhis heart pounding against Callum’s palm. “Don’t let him take this from you, Grey. Not ever.”
The masks made emotion unreadable, but the heat of Callum’s hand was real.
“I won’t,” Greyson said, and meant it.
Callum pulled his hand back with a flourish. “You know the old rule, right? If you break the Vow before the ceremony, you owe me a case of Boundary whiskey.”
Greyson’s mouth quirked. “If I break the Vow, you’ll die of shock, and I’ll just be dead.”
“I’ll die happy, then.” Callum’s laugh was softer this time. “Good luck with your mother. She terrifies me more than the President.”
“Her silence terrifies everyone,” Greyson replied.
Callum raised his glass in salute, found it empty, and mimed a toast anyway. “You’re going to get through this, Grey. You always do.”
Greyson turned to go, then paused at the door. “Cal?”
“Yeah?”
“If anything happens to me, make them suffer.”
Callum’s answer was immediate. “I’ve got you, brother.”
Greyson nodded, then slipped from the room. The mask of the Executioner never left his face, but under it, for a moment, he could breathe.
He cut through the club’s main room, ignoring the hungry looks and the whispers that trailed him like the scent of blood. Outside, the city waited, hungry for another show of power. He straightened his jacket, checked the watch on his wrist, and walked toward the dinner that always ended in threats.
