“Semantics,” I hum.
“Mateo.”
“I said I heard you,” I say. “You think I’m gonna ruin her party by breaking the toy before she gets to play?”
Silence. Then, softer, almost swallowed, “No.”
Yeah, didn’t think so.
That’s why I’m not going to kill Marcus. Not because I give a fuck about Marcus. Because I care about that woman.
Three weeks ago Ember Calloway was dragged into our world spitting threats and shaking and pretending she wasn’t scared. Now she walks through the manor like she was built in its walls. She sits on Rook’s lap at dinner like a queen in court and the rest of us fall in around her like orbit. Now she looks me in the eye and doesn’t flinch. She lets me touch her, and the amount of trust that took still blows my bloody mind.
Yeah. I’m not taking that from her.
Not Marcus. Not his confession. Not his face when he realizes she’s the one giving the orders down there. No. I’ll gift-wrap that for her.
But I’m going to be honest… I am going tothoroughlyenjoy the wrapping.
The door opens, grabbing my attention, and I know it’s showtime.
The building entrance is one of those old communal ones. Four buzzers. Rotted security glass taped in two places. Shit camera no one’s checked in years. Marcus comes down alone, hood up, shoulders in, head angled like he thinks turning his face toward his chest makes him invisible. He’s smaller than I expected.
Marcus stops just inside the doorway and peers out like he’s in a spy film.
Adorable.
I push off the wall and stroll across the street like I’m just cutting through to the off-license. He doesn’t clock me at first. When he finally does his whole body goes tight.
Good evening to you too, cabrón.
“Evening,” I purr, voice low and easy.
His mouth parts. “Do I— can I helpyou?”
English accent. London. Not East. Too polished. Somewhere education-polished. Tries to drop it for “street” and can’t. I can hear the attempt when he says “help ya,” like he’s ashamed of how he sounds.
I smile wider. “Yeah. You can.”
A little sweat beads at his hairline already. Animals always know when the jungle finds them. “I think you’ve got something that belongs to us,” I say softly.
He swallows. “I— I don’t know—”
“Ah,” I trill, stepping in. Not touching. Yet. Just close enough that he feels my heat, smells my sweat, my cologne, my temper.Close enough he sees the ink on my neck. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping we could do this friendly.”
“I don’t—look, I think you’ve got the wrong—”
“That’s cute,” I say.
Then I move. People think I go for the throat first because I like to make it bloody. It’s not true. Throat comes later, much much later.
First? Hands. I snatch his left wrist, and twist—hard.ForSaint.
Marcus screams. It’s not a manly sound. It’s high and raw and panicked, and he jerks like a fish on wire, his knees giving immediately as pain shoots up his arm.
“Shh,” I coo, guiding him — yeah, guiding, I’m gentle like that — back into the shadow of the doorway so CCTV street-side can’t get a clean look. “Cállate.”
He’s panting. “Please— please, I don’t— I didn’t—”
