“How many years have you been killing people?” Greyson asks.
“Almost five. Why?”
“Just curious.” Greyson shrugs. “How did you manage to kill three Nighthawks?”
So I guess I only killed three of them. Huh. “Honestly, I only remember one of them, and that’s because he nearly put me in a coma. I imagine I killed them in the way I killed everyone else; swiftly, but with a dramatic twist.” That was always Dagon’s preference. He wanted the jobs done fast, but he also wanted a message sent to the world; cross him and getgruesomelykilled and then displayed like a mannequin.
“One of them was found in the middle of a cornfield, crucified and stuffed like a scarecrow,” Greyson says. The color drains from Scarlett’s face, and Max sighs beside me.
I frown. “How big was he?”
“6’5, 230 lbs,” Greyson responds instantly. He’s looked into this quite recently.
“I didn’t crucify him or drag him into a field—that,I’d remember. I might’ve scooped out his organs and replaced them with straw, then told Dagon’s men what to do with the body.”
Greyson blinks slowly. “Why?Killing is one thing; what you did was…”
“Art?” Elijah supplies.
“Fuckingepic?” Bryan offers.
“Weirdly impressive?” Max adds on.
“Gruesome and disturbing,” Greyson snaps, so vigorously that Scarlett flinches and casts a wary glance over her shoulder at him.
Ah, there it is.Max mentioned that these two had a rough beginning; I guess he wasn’t exaggerating. Scarlett still has some leftover jumpiness.
Greyson sighs, flattening a hand on Scarlett’s stomach and leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder. He whispers something in her ear, and she relaxes again.
“Why’d you do it?” Greyson repeats.
I cut the rest of my steak into small, precise pieces, gazing at the ridiculously dull butterknife Max left me to war with.
“Why do you kill people?” I ask Greyson.
He frowns. “Money and orders.”
I point my fork at him. “There you have it. I wasn’t getting money, but there were unpleasant consequences when I disobeyed orders.”
Scarlett’s eyes shutter, and she gazes at me with so much sympathy it almost makes me sick. I don’t want her sympathy; in fact, I don’t wantanyone’ssympathy. Frankly, I’d like to just be left the fuck alone.
“What sort of consequences?” Toby finally speaks up.
“The fuck do you care?” I query pleasantly.
“Answer the question.”
“Sorry.” I bare my teeth. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Ember,” Max says quietly, a fine thread of warning in his tone.
I roll my eyes. “Ones painful enough they’d make you break down and cry out for your mommy.”
Toby rakes a cruel gaze over me. “You don’t look mangled to me.”
“Dagon liked showing me off; he was careful to never mar visible skin. If you were half as good as you think you are, you’d know there are phenomenally painful ways to hurt someone without leaving a trace.”
“Tobias,” Max says quietly. “That’s enough.”
