“This,” he says, tapping my knee with two fingers like he’s introducing a favorite blade, “is Mateo Valez. We call him Vale. Some people call him the Devil.” His smile widens, lazy and lethal. “Those people don’t talk much anymore.”
Marcus’s face drains of all color.
“And if you survive Mateo,” Wraith continues, “Saint here will sit with you and ask about your soul until you beg to go back to Mateo. You will, for the record. Everyone does.”
Saint smiles warmly. “I’m a very patient man,” he says.
Marcus makes a tiny helpless sound.
“And if you survivethat,” Wraith finishes, voice going low and edged, “then Rook will come in. And he’snotpatient, or merciful. Rook doesn’t negotiate—he ends things. Do you understand?”
Marcus is breathing fast and hard. He nods so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t snap his own neck.
“Words,” Wraith growls.
“Yes,” Marcus chokes out. “Yes. I understand. I’ll talk. I’ll say whatever she wants. I’ll— I’ll cooperate. Just— please. Please don’t— please.”
God, he’s pathetic. I can taste my own grin. Unhinged little thrill of it sits bright under my tongue.
Because this isit.
This is the part I like. The lead-up. The pressure. The moment right before the blade kisses the skin. When they’re still whole and we decide how much to take. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands folded loose between them.
“Marcus,” I purr. “Look at me.” He does. Smart boy. “You’re not going to talk because you’re scared of us,” I tell him. “That’s part of it, sure. But you’re going to talk because she’s going to be in the room. And you’re going to see her. And you’re going to know what you did. And you’re going to realize you don’t get to walk this off.”
His lip trembles.
“You’re going to understand that you don’t get to disappear into a gray flat in Bethnal Green and pretend you didn’t put your hands on a child,” I murmur. “You don’t get to shrug and say ‘she wanted it’. You don’t get to reason it out in your head and call it field conditioning and tell yourself it didn’t count. You don’t get to frame it up as devotion to your country and think I’m going to clap for you. You don’t get to be the victim in a story you wrote.”
His eyes shine. He shakes his head frantically. “I—I never— I didn’t—”
“Tread carefully,” I sing.
He swallows the old lie down.
Good.
“See,” I say, leaning in, voice dropping to a whisper, “you touched ourqueen. And you did it when she was alone and vulnerable. She was achild!A CHILD, you smug bastard. So now you’reours. And now you belong to her.”
His breath hitches, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. I hope the little bitch cries.
“Ours,” Saint echoes softly.
“Ours,” Wraith rumbles.
My smile sharpens. “Which means you don’t belong to yourself anymore. You answer whatever she asks, and you don’t get to die until she says you can.”
I let that sit. Let him really feel it, and understand the shape of his world now.
That’s what’s eating at me, if I’m honest. Why I keep terrorizing him even though I know I can’t kill him.
It’s because I don’t get to decidewhen.
He doesn’t belong to me. He belongs to her. And for someone like me, that’s…new.
Annoying, but slightly addictive.
I lean back and drape my arms along the bench, loose and satisfied, and let the feeling settle under my skin. I’m buzzing with it, grinning like a lunatic and I can’t stop.
