The dress was black, simple in its design but devastating in its effect. It hugged curves he’d been trying very hard not to notice, the fabric clinging to her body before falling in a soft line at the center of her inked and scarred thighs. The contrast between the delicate dress and those battle-worn boots should’ve been jarring, but somehow it worked—a visual representation of the contradiction that she was.
His gaze continued upward, past the cinched waist to the neckline that dipped lower than Heart fashion typically allowed. It exposed the elegant hollow of her throat, the crooked line of collarbones that hadn’t healed correctly, and a constellation of scars that marked her skin likestars on a map of violence. One particularly vicious scar ran along her right shoulder, disappearing beneath the thin strap of the dress.
She’d done nothing to conceal the marks of her life, of her profession. They were displayed openly, almost defiantly. As were the tattoos—prison numbers across her knuckles, patterns wrapping around her arms, script cascading down the side of her neck and others he couldn’t fully see but glimpsed as she shifted her weight.
“Turn around,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
She stared at him for a moment, hesitating before complying. She pivoted slowly to reveal the back of the dress, or rather, the absence of it. The fabric plunged low, exposing the entire plane of her back. More scars, more tattoos. These ones brutal and deep. Bullet wounds and gashes that puckered white against her dark skin.
The dress didn’t just reveal flesh, but history—pain and survival written in scar tissue and ink. It was beautiful in its brutality, an honest reflection of their world that could not be erased even if the Heart tried.
She was beautiful, and he hated himself for thinking it. She was everything he was never allowed to be—wild and untamed chaos.
Greyson swallowed hard, suddenly aware that he’d been staring. He turned away abruptly, reaching for his mask where it sat on the entry table.
“You can’t wear those boots,” he said, focusing on the easiest problem to address.
“I’m not wearing those death traps your sister sent,” Shadera replied, her voice steady but with an edge he’d come to recognize as nervousness. “I need to be able to run if things go bad.”
Another similarity between them. An exit strategy always lingering in the back of their minds.
“Things won’t go bad.” Even to his own ears, the reassurance sounded hollow.
Shadera snorted. “Sure. And I’m marrying the Executioner by choice.”
The contempt in her voice when she said ‘Executioner’ was familiar, comforting in its consistency. At least that hadn’t changed, even if everything else between them seemed to be shifting into uncertain territory.
“Besides,” she continued, moving past him to the entryway table where her mask lay, “I need a place to hide my butter knife in case your father gives me an opportunity to put it in his throat.”
The crude words contrasted so sharply with her appearance that Greyson couldn’t help the small, dark smirk that twisted his lips.
“You should probably keep those thoughts to yourself tonight, if you plan to make it out alive,” he said, watching her reflection in the mirror. Auburn curls fell over her shoulder, as their eyes met in the mirrored glass.
She turned back to face him, and he was struck again by the transformation. The dress didn’t make her soft—nothing could do that—but it revealed a different facet of her, like a blade catching the light from a new angle.
“Do I make you nervous, little heir?” Her voice held a challenge, but beneath it, he caught the genuine question. She was asking something else entirely.
“No,” he answered, meeting her eyes directly. “But he should make you nervous. Everything you’ve seen, everything you think you know about the Heart, about my family—it’s surface level. Tonight, you might just have a glimpse at what’s beneath.”
Something in his tone must have reached her because the mockery faded from her expression, replaced by a wariness that was far more appropriate for what lay ahead.
“How bad will it be?” she asked.
“You never know with him.” He fitted his mask over his face, the familiar weight settling into place like armor as she secured her own.
They left the apartment in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken concerns. The elevator ascended smoothly, carrying them toward an evening neither was fully prepared for. Greyson found himself studying her reflection in the polished doors—the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her fingers flexed at her sides as if reaching for weapons that weren’t there.
She was afraid, he realized. Not of his father specifically, but of stepping into the unknown territory of Heart society. Of being so deep in enemy territory with no clear exit strategy, no clear allies. The recognition of her fear made her suddenly more human to him, more than just some emotionless assassin with murder in her eyes.
“Breathe,” he whispered as the elevator slowed. “Just follow my lead, and we’ll get through this.”
She didn’t answer, but he saw her shoulders drop slightly, saw her chest rise with a deep breath before she straightened again, steeling herself.
The doors slid open to reveal the antechamber of his father’s penthouse. Two housekeepers stood waiting, their own masks a silver, marking them as upper-level servants but still clearly beneath the family they served. Their posture was perfect, their greeting rehearsed to the syllable.
“Sir,” the older one intoned, dipping into a precise bow. “The President awaits you and your . . .” A fractional pause as she struggled for the right word for her. Prisoner? Bride? “. . . fiancée in the dining room.”
Greyson felt Shadera tense beside him, felt the shift in her weight that suggested she was calculating how quickly she could cross the space and neutralize the perceived threat. He placed a hand at the small of her back, the gesture both restraint and reassurance, his fingers brushing against her exposed skin.
