Page 105 of Villainous Rise

Havoc took my elbow, guiding me further from the crowd, behind a column where the music was muffled and the flashing cameras couldn’t reach us. Before I could protest, he pulled me into a hug.

I was caught off guard by the rare display of affection. Havoc wasn’t a hugger. Not with anyone, not even with me.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, his hand awkwardly patting my back. “I won’t put you on leave, but you need to stop working yourself to death. Maybe increase your therapy appointments for a while?”

I nodded against his shoulder, knowing I wouldn’t. The therapy sessions were useless, an hour of giving careful half-truths because I couldn’t tell any therapist about my broken Warden powers or the cuff suppressing Halcyon’s abilities or what really happened with Cipher. So what was the point?

“I’ll try,” I lied, pulling back from the hug.

Havoc studied my face, his expression unreadable. For a terrifying moment, I thought he might call me on my bullshit. Instead, he just squeezed my shoulder and let his hand drop.

“That’s all I ask,” he said, though his eyes told me he knew better.

I pulled into the private parking lot for Smith Industries, my headlights sweeping across the empty spaces. Midnight was approaching, and the reception had finally ended after what felt like years of smiling for cameras.

My reflection in the rearview mirror looked haunted. My eyeliner was slightly smudged and my hair was falling from its perfect arrangement. I’d been running on fumes for hours, but exhaustion wasn’t what made my hands tremble as I killed the engine.

I love him.

The thought had circled my mind the entire drive, a confession I couldn’t escape. It wasn’t a revelation, exactly, more like finally acknowledging a truth that had been there all along, buried beneath layers of hurt and forced detachment.

I loved Cipher.

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing deeply. How do you tell someone you love them when they’ve explicitly asked you to hate them instead? When they’ve offered themselves up as a punching bag for your rage?

He said he’d be whatever I need, but what if what I needed wasn’t what he thought?

The security guard at the entrance nodded as I approached, not even asking for identification.

“Ms. Bishop. He’s expecting you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an object, offering it to me. My mask. The sight of it sent a flutter of apprehension and relief through me.

I took it, feeling its familiar weight in my hands. Cipher was giving me my armor before I even stepped into his domain. A choice. A shield.

“Thank you,” I murmured. I could slide the mask over my face right now. The world would immediately narrow and simplify. With it on, I wouldn’t be Annie Bishop, Keeper. I would be whoever I wanted to be to get through the night.

My hand shook as I slipped the mask into my jacket pocket instead.

The guard gestured toward an unmarked door beside the main elevator bank. “Private access to the Labyrinth. Just scan your palm.”

The elevator descended smoothly, carrying me down to Cipher’s underground lair. My stomach dropped with each floor, anxiety and anticipation tangling into a knot I couldn’t unravel.

How could I make him understand?

I knew that Cipher, my brilliant, dangerous Cipher, didn’t believe he deserved to be loved. Not after what he’d done. He expected punishment, not forgiveness.

I couldn’t just blurt out that I loved him. He wouldn’t believe me. Not because he thought I was lying, but because he couldn’t imagine being worthy of love. Not real love.

Not after everything.

I paused in the hallway once the elevator opened up and heard the thump of music echoing through the corridor, a pulsing beat that seemed completely at odds with Cipher’s clinical, controlled lair.

I stepped further down the hallway, the music growing louder with each step. The command center stood empty, screens still glowing with data but no one there to analyze it. I continued toward the source of the thumping bass and when I reached the end of the corridor, I froze.

Holy fuck.

The massive storage area had been transformed into a nightclub. Lasers cut through artificial fog, painting the room in electric blue and vibrant purple.

And the people, so many people. Cipher’s henchmen, his tech crew, his security detail—all of them were dancing, drinking, celebrating. Women in metallic bikinis twisted in suspended cages while bartenders in leather harnesses mixed drinks that glowed under blacklights. Servers weaved through the crowd with trays of shots, their bodies adorned with nothing but strategic strips of reflective tape.