Then, quietly, she says, "Only once. To calm me when I first came there. I was… not well."
Asher shuts his eyes. I tighten my grip on the glass until I think it might shatter in my hand.
Then Asher drops the question I don't dare to ask. "Do you regret running from him?"
Her answer comes too fast. "No. No, I don't. There were… misunderstandings. Things I didn't know. But no, I don't regret it."
I stare at her for a long time, and I honestly don't know what I see. Is she lying? Or is she not sure herself?
I salute her with a mock toast. "Thank you for this beautiful little gift you've wrapped for us, sunshine."
I toss back the last of my drink and set the glass down hard.
"I need some time to unwrap it," I mutter, and turn on my heel, heading for the door before either of them can stop me.
Because there's only one thing that can quiet the ache in my chest right now—someone needs to bleed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kayden
Forest might be their domain. But an office building, fluorescent-lit, wrapped in concrete? It's no sanctuary. It's a slaughterhouse waiting for me to step in.
Tonight, I won't hold back. No more diplomacy. No more playing nice.
That was never me. Never will be.
I stalk toward the building under cover of night, quiet as death. The streets are empty, the moon sharp above. But the building still breathes—light spilling from the upper floors, where their little paper-pushing forest bastards burn the midnight oil like Wall Street wannabes.
It almost makes me laugh. Instead, I break the front door.
Full speed. No stealth, no mercy. Just impact. Glass shatters, alarms scream, and suddenly the building knows a predator has come.
The first one I see is a gift. Johnny. Fresh stack of papers in hand, smelling of ink and toner. His heartbeat spikes as he turns toward the noise.
Wrong direction.
"Hey Johnny," I say, my voice sweet as poison.
He snaps to face me, pupils blown wide. The papers fall from his hands. And then I'm on him.
My hand drives into his gut, fingers slicing through soft meat and muscle. I push deep, until I feel the give of something vital, and shove through. Warm, twitching entrails spill around my wrist like ropes of dying silk.
"Remember me?" I hiss, grinning at him. "Back in that container, I bet you didn't think it'd end like this."
I rip my hand free and let him fall.
He hits the floor hard, gurgling, eyes wide in pure shock. It's not a clean death. It's a slow, wheezing collapse, the kind that won't heal.
"But… truce," he mouths, mouth wet with blood.
I scoff. "I don't dance by your goat-boss's rules, boy."
Then I sink my fangs into his neck. I bite hard enough to tear, not just feed. Flesh, blood, pain—all mine to take. I pull back with a grunt, his neck shredded wide, arterial spray painting the concrete tiles like a Jackson Pollock fever dream.
He twitches. Then stills. Done.
"You bastard," comes a voice behind me.
