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I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of the chair, caging him in. I bring my face level with his, close enough to smell the blood, the sweat, the copper and salt, and something sour underneath.

“Who is the Guardian?”

I get nothing but the twitch of his lips. It’s that same smile, stretching a little wider this time, pulling at the split in his skin until it opens again and fresh blood beads along the edge. My patience, which is usually rock solid, starts to crumble.

“Where is Stella St. James?”

That’s what does it. The laugh that comes out of him now is different. Darker. It vibrates against something in my spine and settles there, wrong in a way I can’t ignore.

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Hunter,” he murmurs. “Questions you know I won’t answer and questions that won’t get you any closer to stopping something that’s already in motion.”

My vision narrows, focus sharpening into something dangerous.

“Then help me out,” I say, straightening just enough to look down at him. “Because right now, the only thing keeping you breathing is the idea that you might still be useful to me.”

“You should ask yourself why you’re on the wrong side of this. Why the king is on the wrong side?”

“The murder of innocents isn’t a side either of us is going to take.”

“The darkness requires sacrifice,” he says, as though that alone is justification. “The Guardian only takes what is needed for the rituals to be complete. For true power to rise again.”

Images of bodies crowd in my mind: Laura and Kelsey, discarded and used for a lunatic’s delusions. “You sound like a fucking psychopath.”

The control I walked in here with slips and fractures under the weight of everything pressing in at once. The King–Timothy Maddox–lying in that hospital bed, clinging to life. Arianette, sitting beside him, a never-ending target on her back simply for just surviving. The reality that BRN is ripping itself apart from the inside, with traitors and backstabbers and fucking rapists hiding amongst the loyal.

All of it circling one point–the man bleeding out and the only one still able to talk.

I turn toward the table.

The metal gleams under the harsh overhead light, clean and cold and waiting. My fingers hover for half a second before I instinctively choose one.

It’s a thin, curved scalpel, the kind surgeons use when they want to be exact. The handle is cool, perfectly balanced, the blade no wider than a fingernail, but sharper than anything that should exist outside an operating room. I set it down and pick up the next—a pair of heavy needle-nose pliers, jaws already stained a faint rust-brown from whoever used them last. Those feel right. I wrap my fingers around them, then grab a small ball-peen hammer too, just in case. The weight of the tools grounds and unravels me at the same time.

When I turn back, Mateo’s watching me like this is exactly what he wanted. Like I’m doing what he expected. That fucker thinks I’ve already lost.

Maybe he’s right. If so, then what the hell do I have to lose?

I grab his jaw, forcing his head back, my grip tightening until I feel the strain of bone under skin. “Where are they?” I demand, the words ripping out sharper now, less controlled. “Now.”

“You’ll never find them,” he repeats, smiling wider despite the way it tears his lip open further. Blood slides over his teeth. “You’ll never have what it takes to–”

I don’t let him finish.

The pliers go in first. I jam the jaws between his teeth on the left side, clamp down on the first molar, and yank. The wet crack is sickeningly loud in the small room. Blood floods his mouth instantly, thick and dark. He screams—raw and surprised, the sound breaking off into a wet gargle as the tooth rips free with a spray of red that spatters across my wrist. I drop the molar onto the concrete; it clicks once before it rolls toward the drain.

“Where are they?” I ask again, voice low. I’m not surprised Mateo is holding strong. We were all chosen for certain strengths, and loyalty is his. Unfortunately, it lies with a faceless enemy.

He spits at me. It hits my chest and slides down my shirt like war paint. The smile is still there, broken now, teeth jagged and crimson.

I set the pliers aside and pick up the scalpel.

This time I don’t ask any questions. I press the blade just under his left eye, right where the swelling has split the skin. I drag it down slowly, carving a shallow trench from cheekbone to jawline. The cut opens like a red zipper. Blood wells immediately, sheeting over his face, mixing with the older streaks until his whole head looks lacquered. He jerks against the restraints, but the chair is bolted down. All he can do is thrash his head side to side, which only makes the cut wider.

“You knew going into this what happens to traitors of BRN.” I lean in close enough that our foreheads almost touch, my voice low and venomous. “So yeah, smile at me. Pretend this is all a joke.”

I let the silence stretch for a beat before offering the only mercy he’ll ever get.

“Or tell me where I can find Stella St. James, and you can get a Baron’s burial. Full rites.”