Hawk snaked through the crowd until she was standing in front of Jameson, her mask pulled down now. A large scar cut from ear to ear on the bottom half of her face, a permanent smile he knew could have only been gifted to her by the Veyra.
It was their signature for women who’d refused to kneel to them, that refused to smile for them. If they would not do it on their own, the Veyra would do it for them.
“Farrow’s unit is in position,” she said, slipping onto his right side. “Says they’ve secured the access points to the power grid. They’ll cut it when the signal comes.”
Jameson nodded. “And Jaeger’s teams?”
“Already inside the Heart. Moved in during the night shift change.”
A small victory, but significant. If the Daggermouths were already in place, their chances improved considerably. The assassins would target key security points with snipers, eliminating resistance before it could organize against the main rebel force.
“Let’s move,” Jameson said, gesturing toward the tunnel. “Single file until we hit the first checkpoint.”
He climbed down the ladder first, cracking a glow light and hooking it to his belt, the rebels behind him mirrored his actions and they began their final trek toward the Heart.
His thoughts turned to Shadera again, as they always did in quiet moments. He missed her in a way that made it hard to breathe. Of course he missed the intimacy of her in his arms, of the feel of her skin against his, but that was the least of it. He missed his best friend.
She was his person before he’d ever truly fallen for her.
The simplicity of it made it even more honest. She was just his person, and he missed her.
For now, he would keep his unit safe. Stay focused on making sure they all made it into the Heart alive. But tonight, his only goal was to make sure Shadera made it out with her life.
Chapter thirty-five
9 AM
Greyson’sheadtiltedupas the sound of boots filtered through the air. Slowly, one by one, Veyra came into view and lined the wall on the other side of the cell as Mikel followed them into the room. Greyson knew it was him just by the way he stood. He hesitated at the entrance for only a second before falling in line with his men.
His father stepped through the doorway next and Greyson stared at him, refusing to lower his gaze. A fresh wave of hate threatened to choke him.
“Good morning.” Maximus’s voice was pleasant, almost cheerful. “I trust you’ve had time to reflect on our conversation.”
Greyson said nothing. His silence was all he had left—the only defiance he could muster while bound to the chair.
Maximus punched a code into the cell door and it slid open with a hiss. Goosebumps spread over Greyson’s skin at the sudden stream of warm air and relief crashed over his body. The door was open. One step closer to getting out of this fucking cell.
“Today is a joyous day.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Your ceremony begins in three hours. Captain Mikel will be escorting you and your intended back to your quarters to prepare for this magnificent union.”
Greyson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
“Remember our agreement,” Maximus continued, stepping closer to Greyson’s chair. Close enough that he could smell the expensive cologne that clung to his suit, a scent that had haunted his nightmares since childhood. “You will participate fully. You will speak the words as written. You will smile.” He leaned down, his golden mask inches from Greyson’s face. “And you will consummate the Vow, as tradition demands.”
Bile rose in Greyson’s throat. The consummation—the final, degrading requirement of the Vow ceremony.
Still, Greyson stayed silent.
“I only came to wish my son luck on the most important day of his life,” Maximus said, turning back toward the door. “Remember, your cooperation today decides the fates of many.”
He didn’t say another word as he strode from the cell, passing Mikel. Mikel’s faceplate followed the President until he disappeared through the outer door, then his head turn back to Greyson.
“Remove his restraints,” Mikel ordered the officers. “Then bring out the Daggermouth.”
One officer stepped forward, a knife appearing in his hand. He began to slice through the cords binding Greyson to the chair, starting with those around his chest. Each severed rope eased the pressure, but as blood rushed back into his compressed muscles, pain flared like fire beneath his skin.
Greyson bit back a groan as the last cord fell away. His limbs felt foreign, leaden, refusing to respond properly as he tried to stand. The officer gripped his arm, not roughly but firmly, supporting him as his legs threatened to buckle.
“Slowly,” Mikel advised, watching him with an intensity that made Greyson uncomfortable. “You’ve been bound for nearly forty-eight hours.”
