“And what lesson is that, Valeria?”
“Oh.” She lets out a sound of appreciation. “You hardly ever say my name, but whenever you do, it sounds deliciously personal.”
“What. Lesson?” I ball my fist on the table, and there’s a pause timed to a second.
“That everything costs something.”
“You don’t have to threaten me.”
“It’s not a threat.” Her voice is almost gentle now. The gentleness is the worst part. It always has been. “But it does seem like you need a little reminding.”
“I don’t need?—”
“You remember our agreement, don’t you?”
My pulse spikes.
“Or has the blonde distracted you? The one who collects wounded things and calls it purpose?”
My hand closes around the phone so hard I feel the casing flex.
“There’s a cost here, Nazareth.”
My spine turns to stone.
“Don’t make me raise it any higher, sweetheart. You know how much I hate being disappointed.”
The line goes dead.
My laptop chimes once. A single encrypted notification. No sender. No timestamp. Just a name, highlighted in red. And a number. Seven digits. Wired on delivery. The kind of money that doesn’t get offered for a hit that’s clean or quick or merciful.
I look at it for a long moment.
Red means she wants the kind of damage that echoes. Red means she wants him to feel every second of what’s coming before it ends. Seven digits means she wants it done right.
But I see through it. The message. The job. The phone call.
All of it—security.
A way to ensure my leash is still perfectly in place.
16
SOPHIA
Iwalk into the kitchen and stop dead.
A man I’ve never seen before is sitting at the island like he owns the place, one booted foot propped on the stool rung, casually demolishing one of my pecan muffins. He’s big—not Reth-big, but solid in a lived-in, dangerous way. Tattooed forearms, dark hair that looks like it lost a fight with a wind tunnel, and a face that’s seen some shit and laughed at all of it.
My stomach drops as panic spikes. My hand finds the knife block behind me; the handle is cool, solid, familiar. I yank it free and hold it up like a shield, heart slamming so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
The man raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “In case you were wondering,” he says, perfectly conversational, “I don’t grab sharp-edged things with my bare hands. So if you’re planning to stab me, fair warning, I’ll probably just knock you out.”
He takes another bite of muffin.
“It won’t be personal,” he adds around the crumbs. “I just really don’t want to get stabbed today.”
“Who are you?”
