Time blurs. When the sobs finally taper off, I’m left with a pounding head, a shredded throat, and exhaustion so heavy it presses me into the floor. The pain doesn’t leave—it settles beneath my ribs, constant and unyielding. My stomach twists painfully, reminding me that I haven’t eaten all day, the normalcy of it almost cruel. Grief doesn’t erase basic needs, no matter how much it feels like it should.
I force myself upright, wiping at my face with trembling hands. I need water. Food. Something solid to anchor me before I disappear completely. Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet, washed in soft light. I fill a glass with water and brace myself against the counter as I drink, the coolness easing the burn in my throat just enough to keep me standing. I grab whatever is closest from the fridge, barely registering what it is.
Then the elevator chimes.
My body goes still before my thoughts catch up. I already know what I’m going to see, and still I move closer, peering around the corner just in time to see him. Asher. Dressed in black, weapons strapped to his chest like they belong there, like this is who he is when no one is pretending. His face is unreadable, controlled, and certain, as he steps into the elevator and the doors slide shut behind him.
A chill settles deep in my bones, my fingers tightening around the glass until it hurts. I could call out to him. Ask why. Demand answers. But I don’t, because I already know.
This isn’t a fairytale.
And the man I thought might keep me safe was never my savior at all—he was the one who taught me how dangerous it was to dream.
Chapter 39
The Cost of Mercy
Asher
My phone vibrates against the glass tabletop, the sound sharp enough to slice through the fog in my head. I haven’t moved since the confrontation with Violet hours ago, not really. My body has gone through the motions—changing, pacing, and standing at the window—but my mind is still stuck on the look in her eyes when the truth finally landed. The way the color drained from her face. The way anger rushed in to replace whatever softness had been there before. She looked at me like I was something dangerous she’d been foolish enough to touch.
Maybe she wasn’t wrong.
I tell myself to focus. There’s always something that needs attention. Always another fire. But every thought loops back to her, to the knowledge that if I went to her now, and if I tried to explain, it would only make things worse. Some truths don’t soften with repetition. They just cut deeper.
The vibration comes again.
Mav:We found her. Meet me in the basement.
The words snap something into place inside me. I don’t respond. There’s no need. My pulse picks up as I stand, chair scraping softly against the floor as my body moves before my mind can catch up. We found her. Finally. The woman who helped turn Violet into a liability. The woman who thought hiding behind Rinaldi would protect her.
The question isn’t whether she’ll talk.
It’s how much damage she’ll try to do before she does.
By the time I reach the private elevator, my jacket is already over my shoulders, and the familiar weight of my pistols presses against my chest. I don’t need them for intimidation. I need them because information is a currency, and people are far more honest when they believe you’re capable of following through. Compliance isn’t fear—it’s inevitability.
As the elevator doors slide open, I catch a glimpse of Violet in the kitchen. Pale. Still. Like the air has been knocked out of her and hasn’t found its way back yet. The sight punches something ugly into my ribs, but I force my eyes forward. If I look at her for even a second too long, I won’t go downstairs.
And I can’t afford that.
The elevator descends slower than it should, every second stretching thin as my pulse pounds in my temples. When the doors finally open, Mav is waiting, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, his expression tight in a way that tells me he’s already halfway to violence. Beside him stands Nyx.
Tall. Still. Dressed in black like the shadows cling to her on purpose.
Mav’s cousin doesn’t smile often, but when she does, it’s usually because someone is about to regret something deeply. Even I’m not immune to the edge of unease she carries with her. She doesn’t enjoy cruelty for its own sake—she enjoys efficiency, and that makes her far more dangerous.
“About damn time,” Mav mutters.
Nyx tilts her head, eyes flicking over me with sharp amusement. “Boss,” she says smoothly. “So what are we feeling tonight? Something theatrical, or do you want to keep it… rhythmic?”
I huff a quiet breath. “Surprise me. You’ve always had a flair for presentation.”
She has. Last time I watched one of her interrogations, the man lost control of his bladder twice before she ever raised her voice. Fear is a language, and Nyx is fluent.
The door to the interrogation room is cracked open just enough for me to see the woman inside. Hands bound behind her back. Head slumped forward. Dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. For a split second—just long enough to make my stomach drop—she looks like Violet.
If Violet were tied to a chair in a basement, waiting to be broken.
