And just like that, for the first time in my fucked-up, bloodstained life—I believe her. I believe in us.
Even if we’re monsters.
We’re still alive. And we’re still ours.
The tuxedo collar is choking me.
Not because it’s tight—Alistair had it tailored by some asshole who probably sells suits to kings and dictators—but because I’m not built for silk and polished buttons. I’m built for blood. For bone. For the crack of ribs under my hands and the wet sound a man makes when he realizes he’s going to die.
And apparently, for coronations.
The South Section’s new High Chancellor. I snort to myself as I head downstairs.
If Sterling could see me now—well. He can.
My shoes click down the steps of my estate’s private hall—what used to be a wine cellar but now functions as something else entirely. Something quieter. Colder. Better suited for the dead.
Or thealmostdead.
My hand presses to the inside pocket of my jacket, brushing the folded ultrasound photo Arlo slipped into my hand a fewhours ago. Our children. Twin boys. Two tiny shapes that already own me in ways bullets never could.
I haven’t told her about this place. Some things—dark things—belong only to the parts of me that were made in Valcross.
The basement lights hum as I step through the reinforced steel door. The scent hits first. Copper. Shit. Antiseptic. If hell had a medical wing, it would smell like this.
He’s awake.
Good.
Sterling is strapped to the chair in the center of the room, head slumped forward. What’s left of his head, anyway. His hair is matted with blood, his jaw swollen, half his teeth cracked or gone. One leg ends above the knee, wrapped in heavy bandages that haven’t been changed in days. He refused to kneel for me during month three.
So I took the leg that wouldn’t bend.
He lifts his head at the sound of my steps. His one good eye squints in the harsh light.
“Jesus Christ,” he croaks. “Don’t you ever get tired? Just kill me already.”
I smile and loosen my cuffs. “You say that every time.”
“You think this makes you powerful?” He spits a glob of blood and saliva toward my shoes. It barely lands an inch away. He’s too weak to even hit me properly. “You’re pathetic. You’re just like?—”
“Don’t say it.” I crouch in front of him, resting my hands on my knees. “Not tonight. Tonight’s special.”
His gaze drags over the tux. “Coronation,” he mutters. “So they really gave it to you.”
I tilt my head. “Oh, they didn’t give it to me. I took it. And let me tell you—no one warned me there would be this many goddamn meetings. If I knew the High Chancellor job involved this much paperwork, I might’ve stayed dead.”
He wheezes out a bitter laugh. “You’re fucking disturbed.”
“True. But the antipsychotics dull the edges a little. Not the fun edges, the annoying ones. Like wanting to slit throats in Council meetings.”
I smirk. “Alistair loves that shit, though. Endless strategy sessions, the politics…perfect for a soulless bureaucrat like him. He’s been a good Commander.”
Sterling’s lip curls. “He was never meant for command. He’s weak.”
“And yet he’s still got both legs. Weird how that works.”
His breathing rattles. He’s fading. Not enough to die, but enough to wish he could. For months, I’ve kept him balanced on that line so carefully a surgeon couldn’t replicate it.
