The bartender is behind the bar, restocking bottles and pretending not to exist. I position myself at the far end and catch his eye.
"Mr. Dashkov's glass looks empty." Henri's accent rolls off my tongue. "Perhaps the Macallan 25? Mr. Calder mentioned it was his favorite."
He nods, reaches for the bottle, and pours a glass.
Then turns to gather ice.
Three seconds. That's all I need.
The vial slides from my pocket. A flick of the thumb, a tilt of the wrist, and the contents vanish into the amber liquid.
I slide the glass toward Dashkov's position and melt back into the shadows.
The bartender delivers it with a murmured, "Compliments of the house."
Dashkov doesn't look up. Just takes the glass, swirls it once, and tips it back in a single swallow.
"Excellent vintage." He sets the empty tumbler down. "Tell your boss he doesn't have to keep impressing me. I already signed on the dotted line."
I watch him leave.
The compound won't hit his system for another six hours. By then, he'll be god knows where, convinced his slight headache is nothing more than too much liquor.
Then the tremors will start.
Small at first. A twitch in his fingers. A flutter in his eyelid. Nothing alarming. Just stress, the doctors will say.
But it won't stop.
It'll spread. His hands will shake so badly he won't be able to hold a glass. His legs will give out without warning. And then the compulsions will begin.
The thing about this particular toxin is that it doesn't just destroy the nervous system.
It rewires it.
Creates irresistible urges that override every survival instinct in the human brain.
In seventy-two hours, Dashkov is going to start tearing himself apart.
His tongue first—he'll chew through it trying to stop himself, but the compulsion will be too strong. Then his fingers, one by one. And finally, when the doctors have him strapped to a hospital bed and pumped full of sedatives that won't do a goddamn thing…
He'll reach for his cock.
And he won't stop until there's nothing left.
He won't die. That's the beautiful part. The compound keepsthe heart beating, the brain functioning, even as the body destroys itself.
He'll be alive for all of it.
Every scream. Every sob. Every moment of agony—that's for sliding his hand between her thighs. For looking at her like she was something to be purchased. For making her feel like nothing more than a hole to be used.
I straighten my jacket.
Compose my features.
Walk out of the library and back into my role as the docile guard.
The worst kind of monster…the one with a reason.
