But if she tells him I kidnapped her?
He’ll have to kill me. He can’t let a man live who touched his daughter. The debt won’t save me. The history won’t save me.
But if I keep her...
I’m holding the Judge’s daughter hostage.
I’m caught in a vice between the man who made me and the girl I stole.
And the worst part?
The Judge played me.
He told me Elias was a bomber. He told me it was a threat to the city.
But if Elias was a bomber... why did the Judge risk his daughter being in the blast radius?
Unless he didn’t care. Or unless there was no bomb.
I look at the folder on my desk. The one I took from the room.
I flip it open with a bloody hand.
Architectural drawings. Red Xs.
I trace the marks with a shaking finger.
HVAC intake. Support pillars.
Elias said he was a journalist. He said he had proof.
If this were a bomb plot, the Xs would be targets. But if this is a cover-up... the Xs are vulnerabilities.
I need to know what Elias was really targeting.
The blood is dripping freely now from my hand, a steady rhythm on the floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I need to bandage it. I need to stop the bleeding.
But I can’t move. I’m frozen by the magnitude of my mistake.
I stare at the face of Iris Hale on the license.
When the Judge finds out what I did, he will burn my entire empire to the ground.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
8
CASSIAN
In the bathroom adjoining my office, I pull the black silk handkerchief from my breast pocket.
I wind it tight around my palm, pulling until the fabric bites and the bleeding slows. The sharp sting clears the whiskey fog. I tie the knot with my teeth and look up at the mirror.
Same dark eyes. Same sharp jaw. Same controlled posture. But the foundation is cracked. There’s a flicker behind the pupils that wasn’t there an hour ago.
