“Marcellus won’t do temporary. Royal dynasties don’t contract. They expand.”
Damius stood, slow, and moved to the glass, looking down at Villain like he could see every deal being made inside it.
“Optics,” he murmured.
“Optics and leverage,” I agreed. “If Marcellus gets a foothold here, other dynasties follow. They’ll decide Villain is up for purchase.”
His head angled slightly. “It isn’t.”
“No.” My voice stayed level. “It’s ours.”
He turned back. “So what do you want.”
The lie lined up cleanly in my throat, practiced, spoken in the only language he respected.
“Crow lineage,” Nik said. “Heirs. Legacy.”
Interest locked in. Damius’ focus shifted fully, the way it always did when the conversation turned from business to blood.
Nik had chosen his moment perfectly.
“The bride is Thorne. Good bloodline. Strong stock. She produces heirs that hold. Half Thorne, half Crow. Politically potent. Physically resilient. And all of it stays under our crest, not theirs.” Nik added.
Damius watched me while Nik spoke, like he could see the truth behind my ribs and was amused by how hard we were working to wrap it in strategy.
“Thorne blood strengthens Crow,” he said, almost indulgent. “Stubborn. Resilient. They survive.”
I nodded once, like her name on his tongue didn’t make my pulse turn feral.
“It’s a risk to let that blood go to Marcellus,” Nik pressed. “They gain the line and the access.”
“And the reputation,” I added. “A royal crest paired with Thorne ambition turns this city into a playground.”
Damius held my gaze. “You’re unusually invested.”
I didn’t flinch. “I’m invested in not being surrounded. In ensuring the next generation of Crows still owns this city outright.”
Damius’ eyes narrowed, considering. Legacy had hooked him; Nik was reeling him in.
For a moment, he studied us both like a problem he wanted to solve later. Then he returned to his desk and sat again.
“Marcellus owes us. We collect publicly. They can’t refuse without admitting weakness.” Damius said. He smiled at the word debt.
It turned pride into compliance.
“And the payment,” he prompted, looking between us.
I kept my breathing even. “A royal bride.”
Nik slid the knife in cleaner. “We phrase it as correction, not theft. The second dynasty in the codex paying due to the third. We remind the world that inked order doesn’t equal present power.”
The satisfaction on Damius’ face sharpened into something uglier. “Humiliating.”
“For both dynasties.”
“It shames Marcellus,” he murmured. “A crest that claims it can’t be touched, forced to pay in flesh and pride.”
“It reminds sovereign families that ink doesn’t protect them from us. And it terrifies the rest.”
