He turned, meeting her eyes. Shadera stared at him for a long moment, emotions raging in her gaze as she lifted her hands then hesitated. It only took a breath for her to make whatever decision she was deciding on as her hands came up to cup the sides of his face.
His breath caught in his lungs.
He’d never been touched like this. The mask prevented it. Even before he was required to wear one as a child, no hands had graced his bare cheeks.
Her thumbs swept over the surface in tandem, stilling on both sides of his nose. He didn’t breathe, didn’t blink for fear that she would pull away, that she would take this small intimacy away from him.
Shadera searched his face before her lips parted. “For this moment, I’m going to put aside my hate for you. I’m going to forget that you’re my enemy and speak to you survivor to survivor.”
Greyson swallowed then nodded, eyes never leaving hers.
Her hands flexed against his skin. “You deserved—deservea better father. Love is not supposed to be cruel, and what he’s done to you . . . it’s not your fault. You’re a better man than him, Greyson. Now is the time to be that man.” She paused as his pulse pounded in his ears,ringing as if he were hearing for the first time. “Death doesn’t have to be your legacy.”
They stayed there, suspended in silence. Greyson didn’t know how long it had been when she removed her hands, when she stood in front of him and offered her hand.
“You need to sleep,” she said, her voice still gentle. “You’ve lost blood. You need rest.”
Greyson nodded. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t trust any of the words that were begging to be set free.
His fingers slid into hers, rising to his feet as he scanned the ruin around them. Tomorrow, he’d have to tell her the truth about the Vow, the core of the Heart. But tonight, he needed sleep. He needed distance. He needed clarity.
Shadera strode away from him without a word toward her room and as he watched her go, as those auburn curls swayed with every step she took, he realized the irony of it all.
The woman sent to kill him, was the only woman who had ever made him feel safe.
Chapter twenty
IPromise
Thedoorclickedshutbehind Chapman as Callum turned to face Lira. She stood in his entryway with the stillness of prey that had learned any movement might draw the predator’s attention, and rage ignited in his chest, white hot and blinding.
His hands moved before his mind caught up, reaching for her face, needing to catalog the damage. She flinched—barely, but he saw it, felt it like a blade between his ribs. Callum forced his hands to slow, to be gentle, telegraphing his movements as his fingers ghosted over the edges of her mask.
“Li.” Her name came out strangled, caught between fury and heartbreak that threatened to crack him open if he let it.
The split ran from her left eye to the corner of her mouth, the metal edges sharp enough to have carved into her skin. Blood had dried in rusty trails down her neck, disappearing into the collar of her dress. But it was the bruising that made his vision blur red at the edges—purple-black fingerprints wrapped around her throat already forming like a necklace of violence.
“Who?” The word scraped out of him, though he already knew. Already knew and was calculating how many pieces he could carve Maximus Serel into before death became a mercy.
“My father.” Lira’s voice emerged hollow, drained of its usual steady elegance. “At dinner. Family dinner.”
Callum’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. How many times had he watched Maximus destroy his children under the guise of family obligation? How many times had he stood by, powerless, bound by the same system that now had its hands around Lira’s throat?
“Grey tried to stop him,” she continued, and something in her tone made Callum go still. “He shot him.”
The rage crystallized into something colder, more dangerous. “Is he—”
“Alive. A shoulder wound. Shadera was with him when I left.” Lira swayed slightly, exhaustion bleeding through her rigid posture.
Callum moved, his arm sliding around her waist to steady her. She leaned into him for just a moment, her weight slight against his side, before straightening again. Always maintaining that distance, that careful boundary she’d drawn between them.
She pushed out of his arms and made her way through the entryway, navigating his house like she belonged there.
She did, Callum thought to himself. Belong there.
“You need to rest,” he said as she paused to steady herself against the living room wall.
She only nodded in agreement as he began guiding her deeper into his apartment. The space was deliberately sparse—all clean lines and muted colors, nothing that could be used as leverage against him. But he’d kept the guest room furnished, maintained it religiously, though no one ever used it. As if he’d been waiting for this moment, for her to need sanctuary.
