For a second, I almost laugh. Me—the Grim Reaper who once walked between worlds—now being boosted like a delinquent teen sneaking into a pool. Still, I plant my foot in his hands, and he vaults me over.
I land silently in the mulch behind the willow.
My pulse thunders.
The tree.Mytree. Those drooping branches feel more like home than the goddamn building.
Cassian drops down beside me, soundless, and crouches in the shadow. He doesn’t look at the tree. He looks at me and waits.
I swallow. My throat feels raw.
“This is it,” I murmur.
Right on cue, a loud knock echoes from the front door. Talon and Nathaniel. They’re here.
A pause. Then another knock, louder.
Cassian’s hand ghosts over my wrist. “That’s our cue.”
The plan is simple, no matter how many layers of archaeological reasoning Nathaniel dressed it in before we left. The guys draw attention at the door, and our bet’s on Jessica. Mark never leaves his office during work hours, especially not to answer something as trivial as a knock.
While they keep her busy, Cassian and I slip inside. We’ll split up. He makes some noise to lure Mark out toward the bathroom,and I wait. The moment Mark steps in and catches my reflection in the mirror…
Classic horror.
Now, the front door opens with the squeal of suburban hinges. As expected, Jessica’s light voice carries even here, and I have to fight not to choke on that familiar cadence—her rehearsed politeness, all sugar and self-importance. Then comes Talon’s voice: velvet and danger dressed as charm. Nathaniel’s steadier, good-boy tone slots in behind him, scaffolding the act.
Perfect.
Cassian and I slip from the willow’s shadow to the house’s siding. My pulse is a staccato against my ribs, but when Cassian grabs my hand, it steadies. Just a little.
“Scared?” he murmurs.
I almost laugh.
“Terrified. Excited. High. I don’t even know the difference anymore.”
His grip tightens.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, I believe him. His words slide under my skin like steel and silk both.
That’s the thing about Cassian: he might be a massive buffoon sometimes, but he makes everything seem simple.
Revenge is just another mission.
Objective, execute, extract.
He doesn’t wrap it in morality or poetry the way I do. To him, injustice gets punished. End of story.
I should take a lesson from that.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. His white eye glints in the porch light bleeding around the corner of the house. “Don’t let him see you shaking.”
“I’m not shaking.” My whisper is fierce, but it’s a lie. My whole body hums.
“You are,” he says flatly. “And that’s not right. He should be the one afraid, not you.”
