Put a bullet in the puppet master and burn the strings down to ash.
“Easy,” Ink murmured as he moved beside me a few seconds later. He followed my gaze. “You look like you’re about to chew glass.”
I didn’t answer.
“Talk to me, brother.”
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. “I want to put that fucker in the ground.”
“Elena’s client?”
“No.” My voice dropped lower. “Marks.”
Ink was quiet for a second, then sighed. “Yeah. Figured.”
I stepped back, dragging a hand over my jaw. “I’m fucking itching, man. One gun, one bullet, one drive to the studio. I could end this right fucking now.”
“And be in a cell by morning,” Ink replied evenly. “With Ash busting his ass to keep your face off the news and King breathing fire down your neck for going rogue.”
“I’d get out,” I snapped.
He gave me a look. “You’d get out eventually. Maybe.” His voice dropped, calm and deadly. “You go off half-cocked, you leave her unprotected. And worse? You leave her unclaimed.”
My eyes jerked to him.
He arched a brow. “Which means she’s fair game. Any asshole in this city could make a move. Could offer her safety. Comfort. Something you’re not around to give her.”
I turned, my hands braced on the doorframe now, breathing hard.
Ink stayed where he was, calm as ever. “You want her safe? You wait. You watch. You collect every piece of that bastard’s life and burn it down the right way. Quiet. Permanent. Clean. So there’s nothing left to tie you back to it.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “And when it’s done, you take her home and make her yours.”
I didn’t speak. Just stared down the hallway where Elena had disappeared, my heart pounding with a hungry ache.
He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Now breathe. And wait. Let’s take this motherfucker down right.”
I said nothing, my jaw locked, and wrath simmered under my skin.
He was right.
And that made it worse.
Because now I wasn’t just angry.
I was plotting.
Jareth Marks was already a dead man.
8
ELENA
Ifinished sterilizing the parts of the coil machine I’d used that day, checking for indicator changes before storing everything away. My hands kept moving out of habit, but my attention drifted to Reeve. He was focused on what he was doing in that intense way of his.
It reminded me of what Ink had told me when I asked about Reeve’s road name.
“Onyx didn’t get his name for bein’ pretty with a machine,” he explained, leaning back against the counter. “He got it ’cause once he puts something on skin, it doesn’t fade. Doesn’t blur. Doesn’t soften. Just sits there—dark and solid—like it’s part of you. Someone said his work looked like it was cut from stone, like onyx, and that was it. Name stuck. Same way he does.”
I cleared my throat softly. “I’m all done.”
