Inside, nested in velvet, is a gun.
Not just a gun. The gun. Designed for a hand smaller than his, the grip dark wood inlaid with—
Green.
My stomach goes warm. That's—my favorite color.
Green detailing running through the metal, subtle, threading along the barrel in lines that catch the candlelight. Not gaudy. Just present. Woven into the weapon's design.
He knows my favorite color.
When the fuck did he find that out? I never told him. I don't remember telling him. But he knows, because it's here, built into the gun he had made for me. For me.
"It's yours." His voice is closer now—he's moved without me noticing. "Custom weighted. The recoil won't throw off your aim."
I lift it from the box and it settles into my palm. Perfect fit. Perfect balance.
Normal people get flowers. I get custom firearms.
"Nothing says thoughtful gift like personalized murder weapons in my favorite color." The words come out with too much honesty bleeding through. "You shouldn't have."
"You claimed the kill." He's behind me now, his breath warm on my neck. "You should have the right tool for it."
I turn the gun in my hands, studying the metalwork. Intricate. Someone spent hours on this—getting the green to shimmer instead of clash, getting the balance distributed so it would sit in my grip without pulling.
He paid attention.
"How long have you been planning this?"
"Since the bathhouse."
Days. Only days, but he was already planning this. While I was learning how to stand beside him without flinching, while I was figuring out how to use my voice in rooms full of gods, whileeverything was collapsing around us—he found time to have a gun made for me.
Fuck.
"I don't—" I stop. Try again. "This is—"
Words aren't working. I don't have language for this ugly, overwhelming gratitude for a gift designed to help me commit patricide.
"Thank you." My voice breaks on it. "I mean it. Thank you."
His hand slides into my hair and tips my head back. I'm looking up at him from the edge of his bed, gun in my lap, half-undressed, and his eyes are silver all the way through.
"You're welcome."
"What are you—"
"Looking at you." His thumb drags across my lower lip. "You're all lit up right now. Bright. No shadows, no tangles. Just you, wanting me, not trying to hide it."
Thread-sight. He's reading my truth while I'm sitting here with a murder weapon in my lap and my pulse hammering against my throat. No dignity left. Not even inside my own head.
"That's cheating."
"Probably." His smile goes sharp. "I'm going to kiss you now. Then I'm going to take off the rest of your clothes. Then I'm going to put my mouth on your cunt and make you come until you forget why you were tired. Any objections?"
I should object. I should have a lot of objections. We just came from a plaza with a body cooling on the stone and my sister is locked in a house with a monster and in a few hours I'm going to commit patricide.
Instead my thighs press together and my mouth goes dry and the only thought in my head is yes, do that, do all of that, right now.
