“You nervous?” Nathaniel asks suddenly, his voice all silk and knives.
I scoff, shaking my head. “I don’t get nervous.”
His lips quirk, amused. “No? Then what do you call that little furrow between your brows?”
I exhale sharply, looking away. “Annoyance.”
“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced, then shifts in his seat, tilting his head slightly as he studies me. “Youshouldbe nervous, Skye. You're about to watch someone die for the first time while knowing exactly how it's going to happen. And more than that—you're going to see what we do with her soul afterward. You’re taking part in murder.”
A chill runs down my spine, but I mask it with indifference. “And?”
“And,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that slow, deliberate edge that makes my stomach clench, “you're either going to like it, or it's going to haunt you forever. Either way, you won’t be the same after tonight.”
I don’t respond. Mostly because I know he’s right. But also because I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.
We sit in silence, time crawling by. Then, from the alleyway, I hear it—a muffled sound. Sharp. Cut off. The kind of noise people make when they suddenly realize their life expectancy just dropped to zero.
Cassian.
It happens fast.
The back door creaks open, and Cassian emerges, dragging Laura Collins—The Candy Maker—by the arm. Her body is already slack, her legs wobbling like she’s three shots deep into a bad night. Talon steps out after him, brushing nonexistent dust from his hands.
They pretend she’s drunk.
I mean… it is evening. The sun’s still out. But also… the lady’s a grandma. Not exactly prime “one too many margaritas at the club” material.
How are people not suspicious?
Oh, this is definitely going to bite them in the ass.
“She put up less of a fight than I expected,” Talon comments quietly, adjusting his sleeves.
“Still breathing?” Nathaniel asks, already moving.
Cassian gives a sharp nod, hoisting her up effortlessly like she weighs nothing.
“Then let’s go,” Nathaniel says, voice laced with dark satisfaction. “Time to give her a taste of her own medicine.”
Now, I know what he means. I do. But something about the way he says it makes me deeply concerned that if karma were a person, she’d materialize right here just to slap him across the face.
Maybe I should do it for her.
Because what the actual fuck?
Still, I don’t say anything. I shouldn’t care if the police catch them. My only goal here is simple—get these three lunatics to kill my ex-husband so I can finally haul his ass to the afterlife and get my sweet revenge. Whatever happens to them after? Not my problem.
But I’m calling it now. The cops are gonna chase these guys.
I watch as Cassian shoves Laura into the backseat, her body slumping against the leather like a marionette with cut strings. Her eyes flutter open—barely. There’s a flicker of awareness, sluggish and distant, like her brain is buffering. She tries to move, but… yeah, nope. Her fingers twitch feebly at her sides, her lips barely part, but whatever fight she had in her is long gone.
Tetrodotoxin.
Nathaniel wasn’t kidding when he said his version worked fast.
I inhale slow and steady, forcing myself to really look. Laura Collins—the woman who stole children from their homes, who left parents with holes that would never heal, who treated life and death like her personal playground.
And yet, right now… she’s just a person. Small. Weak. Not some untouchable monster—just another fragile human who got targeted by the wrong people.
