This is the moment that separates the survivors from the casualties in my world. The instant when civilized masks slip away and reveal the teeth underneath. I’ve seen grown men weep at far less provocative displays, watched seasoned criminals lose their nerve when confronted with my particular brand of artistic expression. Or rather, Hans’s execution of my particular brand of artistic expression.
Saylor does something that stops my heart.
She smiles.
It’s not the smile of someone trying to appear brave or sophisticated. It’s the slow, satisfied curve of lips that have just tasted something exquisite. She reaches out—actually reaches out—and her fingertips hover just above the crown of blue flowers Hans wove through Sly’s silver hair. Close enough to feel the residual heat bleeding from his cooling flesh, close enough to disturb the careful arrangement if she wanted to claim a souvenir.
The gesture is intimate. Proprietorial. Like she’s already thinking of him as hers rather than mine.
Conversations murmur somewhere behind me, but the voices sound like they’re coming from underwater. The entire ballroom might as well be empty except for the woman tracing the architecture of death with her eyes, memorizing each detail of Hans’s handiwork with the focus of someone committing a lover’s body to memory.
A familiar voice cuts through my concentration. “That was quite the statement.”
I turn to find Ash Cupp standing beside me, his calculating gaze fixed on the flower-adorned corpse. He’s holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey, and there’s something different in his posture—less protective baker, more dangerous strategist.
“Ash.” I nod. “Enjoying the party?”
“Elliott’s been charming the ladies with stories about his butterfly collection.” Ash takes a sip of his whiskey, then meets my gaze directly. “But we both know tonight wasn’t about hospitality. You just painted a target on your back in front of the entire town.”
The words settle between us like stones dropping into still water. Ash understands exactly what I’ve done here—not just arranged for Sly Crow to be killed, but made it public, taunting, impossible to ignore.
“They’re going to be furious,” he continues, his tone dropping to something that reminds me of the man he used to be. “Pissed-off Crows can either be extremely lethal or they can make stupid mistakes. Depends on how much you’ve gotten under their skin.”
“I’m banking on stupid mistakes.”
Ash’s smile is as lethal as any blade I’ve ever wielded. “Good. Because if you need another general in your army, I volunteer.” He raises his glass slightly, a toast to violence yet to come. “The Collector may be retired, but he remembers every trick they taught him. And he has some scores of his own to settle.”
The offer solidifies between us like a pact written in blood. Ash isn’t just offering to help. He’s declaring his loyalty, choosing sides in a war that’s about to consume Grimlock.
“What about Elliott?” I ask.
“Elliott will be protected. But these bastards killed Peter, and Peter saved my brother’s life.” Ash’s grip tightens on his glass. “Some debts can only be paid in blood.”
The pact between us feels sealed without another word. Ash melts back into the crowd as silently as he appeared, leaving me to turn my attention back to the woman still circling my gift.
When she finally looks up and catches my eye across the room, there’s something in her look that makes my cock hard. Not fear. Not disgust. Something deeper, darker, utterly captivating.
Recognition.
She sees what I’ve done for her, and she understands exactly what it means.
I excuse myself from the conversation and make my way through the crowd, accepting compliments on the evening’s ambiance while keeping my focus locked on Saylor. She hasn’t moved from her spot, hasn’t looked away from my gift. When I finally reach her side, she doesn’t startle or step back. She just continues studying Sly’s lifeless face.
“Nice flower arrangement,” she says, like we’re discussing weekend hobby projects instead of the results of my latest orchestrated murder. “The blue really brings out his eyes.”
“I had a feeling you’d appreciate the attention to detail.” I move closer, catching her fragrance over the moss and death. “Color coordination is important in any good centerpiece.”
“A Crow decorated with flowers.” She tilts her head, considering. “There’s definitely some irony there. Very Martha Stewart meets Edgar Allan Poe.”
“I do try to keep things thematically appropriate.”
When she turns to face me, her eyes hold something that makes my chest tighten. No horror, no demands for explanations. Just genuine interest, like I’ve finally done something worth her attention.
“So is this your usual party trick?” she asks. “Corpse as conversation starter?”
“Only for special occasions.” I let my hand drift close to hers on the table’s edge. “Only when I really want to make an impression.”
“And what exactly are you trying to impress upon me?”
