My chest tightens as he goes on, his tone dropping lower, quieter.
“At eleven, I was made to pull the trigger on one of my grandfather’s men. Someone I…” He swallows, pausing. For thefirst time, his hand stills on my back. “Someone I was close to. He taught me things, even at that age. But he betrayed my grandfather. Betrayed our family. And in our world, betrayal is a death sentence. No exceptions”
The weight of it presses against my chest, and my heart sinks. I can’t imagine being able to kill someone you trusted at that age. To take a life before you even really understood your own.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, the words slipping out hesitantly, unsure if I should even be saying them.
But he only smiles faintly, and—God help me—he boops my nose with his finger like we’re talking about something far lighter. The tenderness of the gesture made me all warm.
“Is that why you have the armband tattoo?” I ask quietly, studying the ink circling his strong arm. “I heard… sometimes people get them to honor lost loved ones. Is that true?”
He glances down at it, expression unreadable for a moment, then nods.
“It’s true. But this one wasn’t for him.”
I tilt my head. “No?”
His eyes soften, sadness flickering there like a candle flame.
“It’s for my grandmother. She died two years ago.”
“Ah.” My voice drops with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss. You were close to her then?”
“Yes.” The word comes out tight, stripped of all his usual calm. His gaze drifts past me, and I know he’s somewhere else—back with her, in a memory that still aches. Then, after a pause, he looks at me again. His lips curve, faint but certain.
“She would have loved you.”
My heart stutters, fluttering against my ribs, and a small, uncertain smile curves my lips.
“She would?” I ask, my voice soft, fragile.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, then leans in and brushes a kiss against my forehead. The warmth lingers there like a blessing. “She would.”
I bite down on my lower lip because I know what’s coming, I can feel him steering us back to me, and I don’t know if I’m ready.
“Now,” he murmurs, his tone shifting, grounding, “let’s talk about you.”
He understands. Of course he does—his hand trails up my spine, not possessive this time but soothing, steadying.
“They wouldn’t stop screaming in pain,” he says, his tone casual. Almost cold, “And apologizing. To you.”
A sharp grimace cuts across my face. “I don’t want their apology.”
I part my mouth, ready to speak, but the words die on my tongue. My chest tightens, a pressure building that feels like it could break me from the inside out.
His eyes sharpen instantly. “What is it?” His voice drips with concern, heavy with worry.
“Nate,” I whisper, my eyes dropping to his chest. “He’s… still alive.”
The way the words leave me—soft, bitter, disappointed—it sounds like a confession. Like I resent the fact that he’s still out there, breathing, living, when I’m the one left haunted.
“He is.” Alex says flatly, “But trust me, right now he’s praying for death to find him.”
My gaze jerks up to his. “What… what do you mean?”
He lets out a short, dark laugh. Then he leans forward, his hand sliding up to curve around the back of my neck. Firm. Unyielding. My breath catches.
“I have him locked up,” he says, each word deliberate, weighted. His eyes burn into mine, merciless and steady.
