His grip on her throat tightened, his other hand curling into a fist around the bottle’s neck. Then she saw it. Saw the flash of memory in his eyes, the ghost of that pain still living in his body all these years later.
She didn’t flinch.
Greyson held her there, their bodies nearly touching, the silence between them growing dangerous.
She saw it in him—a kind of violence that ran colder than fury, a violence so practiced it’d become routine. He could’ve snapped her neck in that moment, she knew it. Could’ve ended the whole charade, and maybe he even wanted to. But he didn’t. She watched him make the choice not to. Watched his jaw work, watched his nostrils flare wide, watched the blue in his eyes narrow to a killing moon.
He released her with a shove, as if disgusted by the idea of her taking up his air. She rocked back, legs catching herself before she could stumble. The skin of her neck throbbed, heat pulsing from every spot his fingers had pressed. She let herself cough, once, not enough to give him satisfaction, just enough to clear her windpipe.
Greyson stalked to the window, his free hand dragging down his face as he looked out over the city. Shadera watched the tremor that plagued his other hand as he rose the bottle to his lips. It was so slight no one else would’ve noticed it, but she was a connoisseur of pain. Especially the kind that haunted the living.
“I need you to leave,” he said as he turned back to face her. His gaze had gone flat, not a single ounce of emotion to be found in their depths.
“No.” Shadera’s back straightened in defiance.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before his eyes locked on to hers.
“Shadera.” A pause. “I want to kill you.” The cadence of his statement sent a shiver crawling down her spine. “If you do not leaveright now, I’mgoingto kill you.”
There was something about the admission, something so dead in his gaze, that she didn’t question the sincerity of it. She hesitated for only a second, her eyes staying locked on his as her heart began to race, then finally, she fled the room.
Chapter fourteen
You Know The Rules
Theman’swhimperechoedoff the concrete walls as Callum circled the metal chair, his footsteps unhurried. Blood already decorated the concrete floor in abstract patterns, spreading outward from where the elite slumped. Crimson covered his once pristine white shirt—an expensive piece now ruined beyond salvation. Callum flexed his fingers inside the brass knuckles, feeling the weight of the metal warm against his skin. He believed in consequences. He believed in order. This was a lesson in both.
Above them, the club’s bassline thumped through three floors of concrete and steel, vibrating through Callum’s bones like a second heartbeat. Down here, in the basement that didn’t exist on any architectural plans, the sound arrived muffled and distorted—a ghost of the revelry happening in the world above. The single bulb hanging from exposed wiring cast harsh shadows that turned the blood black where it pooled in the floor’s imperfections.
“Do you understand why you’re here, Davish?” Callum asked, his voice betraying none of the disgust coiling in his gut. He stopped his circling, positioning himself directly in the elite’s line of sight.
Davish—mid-forties, thinning hair, the soft physique of someone who’d never known true hardship—lifted his head. His mask had been removed, a power play for Callum, an indignity that wouldhave scandalized Heart society. Without it, his face was unremarkable, save for the terror widening his eyes.
“Please,” Davish croaked, spitting blood onto the concrete. “This is a misunderstanding. I didn’t kno—”
Callum’s fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the lie. The brass knuckles split skin on impact, adding another wound to the collection already forming on Davish’s face. Two guards stood against the far wall, expressions impassive behind their masks. They’d seen this ritual before.
“A misunderstanding,” Callum repeated, wiping a fleck of blood from his sleeve with fastidious care. “You truly didn’t know?” Callum kept his voice conversational, almost gentle.
He circled the chair again.
“Strange. Because Marina wears my mark. Right here.” He tapped the spot below his own ear where all his workers bore the same small copper tattoo—a singular rose on a stem, splitting his initials on either side. “Unless you’re telling me you didn’t bother looking at her face while you held her down.”
Davish’s sob came out as a gurgle. Blood ran from his nose in twin streams, disappearing into the ruin of his mouth.
“Let’s be clear about what isn’t misunderstood. You paid for time with Marina. You agreed to our terms. And then you put your hands on her.” He leaned down, bringing his mask inches from Davish’s exposed face.
The proximity was unnerving—a violation of Heart law that emphasized just how far they’d stepped outside society’s rules.
“No one touches what’s mine,” Callum said quietly. “Especially not like that.”
The elite attempted to straighten in the chair, dignity warring with survival instinct. “She’s just a Cardinal whore—”
This time Callum didn’t aim for the face. His fist drove into Davish’s solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in a desperate wheeze. He doubled over as far as his restraints would allow, and retched onto the floor between his expensive shoes.
Callum crouched down to meet his one good eye—the other had swollen shut ten minutes ago.
“Marina has three younger siblings in the Cardinal,” Callum said casually when Davish had recovered enough to listen. “She sends ninety percent of what she earns to keep them alive.”
