“There we go,” Saylor says pleasantly, pouring another measure when Jack’s mouth opens in a desperate gasp for air. “Much better cooperation.”
This time, Jack has no choice but to swallow or drown. The fight goes out of him as soon as the champagne hits his system—he knows it’s over.
Victor is easier. The old gangster doesn’t fight when Hans gripshis jaw, just opens his mouth and lets Saylor pour the champagne down his throat. He swallows it all with the resignation of someone who’s lived too long in this business to expect mercy.
Saylor settles back to watch like she’s got front row seats to her favorite show.
Hans sets the empty glass aside.
Victor’s voice is already getting weaker as he speaks. “You know this won’t end with us. The Crow have been around for years, Blue. Kill us, and ten more will take our place.”
“I’m counting on it,” Saylor says, echoing my words from dinner with a confidence that makes something hot and primal uncoil in my chest. “More practice.”
The casual way she discusses multiple murders, the complete confidence in her voice—watching her discover this side of herself is better than any drug I’ve ever tried.
The basement falls quiet except for the increasingly labored breathing of our guests. Jack’s face has gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. Victor tries to speak but can only manage a whisper.
“This... this isn’t justice,” Victor manages. “This is revenge.”
Saylor tilts her head, considering his words with genuine curiosity. “Is there a difference?”
Victor’s head drops forward, his breathing becoming shallow and irregular. Jack follows a moment later, the last traces of defiance finally leaving his body.
I watch Saylor as she studies their faces, taking in every detail like she’s memorizing it. Her breathing is steady, her color normal, her stomach apparently settled. No nausea, no fainting—just watching them die by her own hand.
“Well?” I ask quietly.
She turns to look at me, and the satisfaction blazing in her expression makes my pulse pound. “I could get used to this.”
The way she says it—the quiet conviction, the complete absence of guilt or regret, the flush in her cheeks that has nothing to do with exertion—makes something primitive and hungry rise in my chest. Watching her kill, seeing her embrace this part of herself without apology, is the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.
I stand slowly, moving toward her with deliberate intent. She meets my gaze without flinching, and when I cup her face in my hands, her lips part in anticipation.
“You’re incredible,” I murmur against her mouth before kissing her with all the heat and admiration I’ve been holding back.
She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt as she pulls me closer with desperate hunger. The kiss tastes like victory, and when she breaks away to look at me, her eyes are dark with the same arousal that’s coursing through my veins.
“Bedroom,” she whispers, her voice breathless with want. “Now.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Saylor
A knock on my door at 9 p.m. reveals a garment bag hanging on the handle with a note attached.
For tonight. The fae prefer their mortals dressed appropriately. - B
I unzip the bag and stare at what’s inside.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to my empty room.
The centerpiece is a black corset dress crafted by someone who not only understands but worships the female form. The bodice is made of black silk with intricate silver embroidery that catches light when I move. The corset laces up the front with silver ribbon, pulling everything into a perfect hourglass silhouette. The skirt is layers of black tulle and silk that flow to just above my knees, short enough to show off the thigh-high stockings with delicate lace tops.
The boots are black leather and lace up to mid-thigh, with silver buckles and a higher heel than I usually wear. They’re clearly expensive, custom-made to fit perfectly, and designed to look both elegant and slightly dangerous.
But it’s the wings that make this costume look like it came from one of my dreams.
