9
LIVVIE
The water scalds my skin, but I don’t move out from under it.
Instead, I close my eyes, brace my palms against the cold tile wall, and let the heat blur everything—the evening spent next to Kingston, the gunshots, the way my heart still hasn’t stopped pounding.
It all swirls down the drain at my feet, almost comforting, but not quite. Not enough to change the fact we were shot at again.
At a gala full of mob royalty, someone pulled a trigger as a reminder that no amount of glitter and tailored suits can keep us safe.
The Red Tribunal could have killed us butchosenot to as a show of mercy.
I tip my head back and let the water cascade over my face. However, nothing can dull the lingering adrenaline, the sick weight of knowing I’m part of a game with rules I was never taught, on a board that’s already been rigged.
And then there's the envelope.
The one I tucked into my clutch, from a woman who never said a word. She appeared at my side in the washroom, her expression blank, her presence almost forgettable—almost—until she pressed it into my hand and slipped away before I could ask a single question.
No words. No reason. Just a gesture so smooth, so intentional, I didn’t realize I was being marked until much later.
I hadn’t dared to open it at the gala, not with eyes everywhere and the walls humming with threat.
But the weight of it burned into my mind all night.
And when I finally tore it open before jumping into the shower, I found a plain white card inside, its edges stiff, its surface oddly satiny slick.
No name. No signature. Just a single line, each letter scratched with dark, rust-colored ink.
You married a dead man.
The words had blurred as my heart pounded, each letter violent in how they’d been carved into the card with something sharp.
The ink had a faint but unmistakable metallic scent. A coppery stench like… blood.
Drenched in soapy water, I suck in a breath through my teeth and reach blindly for the shampoo, needing something to focus on. My fingers tremble as I lather and scrub my scalp to erase the past few hours.
But no amount of water can cleanse what’s already been written. And no matter how well I clean myself, I can’t escape reality.
Someone out there wanted me to read that note. They wanted me to understand that my wedding vows were thestart of a countdown because my new husband is living on borrowed time.
The bathroom door swings open without warning, dress shoes clipping on tile as Kingston strides inside, full of confidence.
“Ever heard of knocking?” I snap, turning my back to him, even though the glass is foggy. “Or is privacy another thing I surrendered when I married a Viacava?”
His voice is cool, controlled. “You’ve been in the shower for ages, princess.”
“Scared I’ll use all the hot water?” I shoot back, tilting my chin just enough to show I’m not intimidated. “Or do ya need me dressed and obedient at all times?”
His shadow moves closer, the heat of him palpable even through glass. This man generates raw magnetism and somehow, I’m a victim to its hateful pull.
“I don’t care if you’re naked, princess,” he says smoothly, voice dipping into that low, dangerous register that makes my pulse forget whose side it’s on. “But I do care if you’re reckless. You disappeared into a locked room for nearly an hour, with no word, no sound… after the night we’ve had?”
I smirk, even as my chest tightens. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize taking a shower in your fortress of security guards and marble qualified as high-risk behavior. I’ll remember to moan louder the next time I’m getting myself off.”
His hand lifts, palm pressing flat against the fogged glass near my shoulder, the outline of his body dark and commanding through the steam.
“You think this is a joke?” he growls, his voice rougher now, more threat than question.
