That’s what the Justice Ministry is calling me now. “Victim of attempted assassination,” “primary witness in an inter-syndicate incident,” “key cooperative informant.”
Bullshit.
I’m not a victim. I’m a warning.
The knock comes soft. My second, Milo, leans in through the secure suite’s archway. “Message from the Ministry just came in. They’re confirming your participation. You’re expected tomorrow at 0900.”
“Expected.” I echo the word, rolling it on my tongue like something sour. “Am I to wear a halo too?”
“They’re assigning you a liaison.” Milo pauses, and I catch the flicker of hesitation in his voice. “Name came through encrypted. But… I think you’ll recognize it.”
My eyes narrow.
“Dawson,” he adds.
And just like that, the steam doesn’t feel warm anymore.
It scalds.
I lift my hands, water sluicing off my forearms, tracking through the fine cracks in my bone ridges. I dry slowly, deliberate, every movement smooth. Calculated.
Aria Dawson.
The woman whose voice has been a thorn in my side and a balm to my nerves. The woman who haunts my thoughts not with sweetness, but with precision and fury.
And now she’s going to be by my side.
The Ministry thinks this is a leash. They think tethering me to my favorite enemy is going to keep me compliant.
They don’t know what they’ve done.
I stalk across the suite, throw on a fresh shirt—tight across the shoulders, the collar undone. No armor today. No masks. Just me. Let her see it.
Let her smell what I am.
Let her learn what it means to be this close to a Reaper with his pulse quickened and his blood stirred.
The assassination attempt failed.
But something far more dangerous just began.
CHAPTER 5
ARIA DAWSON
Courtroom four smells like old steel, cold air scrubbers, and ambition. The kind of place where reputations either burn bright or go down in scandalous smoke. I walk in like I own it, every click of my heels echoing off marble and glass like a warning shot.
Neutral palette, sleek bun, matte lipstick that means business. The shoulder pads on my blazer make me look like I could take a punch from a Gornak enforcer and not spill my kaf. My body hums with caffeine and the remnants of a restless night, but I wear it like armor.
He’s already there.
Lounging at the witness table like it’s a damn throne, one leg casually draped over the other, fingers steepled. Black shirt open just enough to hint at the chaos beneath. That shock of white hair is tied back, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the coil of bone spurs running from his knuckles halfway up his forearms. Reaper couture.
He sees me. Winks.
My mouth goes dry.
Fury. I decide it’s fury. What else could it be?
