Daggermouth (The Heart, #1) — Chapter no 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Do Your Fucking Worst

The bottle felt heavy in Greyson’s hand, the expensive liquor burning a path down his throat that did nothing to dull the rage pulsing beneath his skin. The town car’s interior pressed in on him, too small to control both his fury and the woman sitting beside him. She hadn’t spoken since Jameson left the club.

Neither had he. Words seemed futile in the wake of what had just happened— what she’d almost done.

Shadera sat with her body angled away from him, one leg drawn up beneath her, creating as much distance as the back seat would allow. The whiskey bottle in her hand tilted toward her lips, her throat working as she swallowed. Her mask caught the shifting lights from outside, shadows dancing across the skull’s hollow eyes as they passed through the Heart’s gleaming streets.

He took another drink, letting the burn distract him from the images that kept flashing through his mind—Shadera in Jameson’s arms, her body pressed against his, the way her fingers had lingered on him. The fucking way she’d looked at him.

Chapman’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then quickly away. Smart man. He had served him long enough to recognize when silence was the safest option.

Greyson’s jaw clenched as the car hit a small bump, forcing his shoulder briefly against hers. She shifted further away, pressing herself against the door.

She’d been ready to leave. To walk out that door with Ghost and disappear into the night, knowing exactly what it would cost. Knowing what his father would do to the rings, to Lira, to Callum. Knowing what he would do to Greyson.

The realization came with a bitter taste that even the alcohol couldn’t wash away. She’d rather risk everything—risk everyone—than remain with him. The thought dug hooks into his chest, tearing at something he couldn’t name.

Wouldn’t name.

He drank again, deeper this time.

Outside the window, Serel Tower loomed ahead, platinum spires reaching toward the sky like accusing fingers. Home. Or the closest thing to it now.

Except it didn’t feel like home anymore—not with her in it, bringing chaos into his carefully ordered existence. Not with her betrayal still bleeding between them.

The car pulled into the private garage beneath the tower, the transition from street to underground marked by a sudden dimming of light. Chapman brought the vehicle to a smooth stop and Shadera was out before Chapman could open her door, striding toward the elevator without waiting. Greyson followed, his movements controlled despite the alcohol making the edges of his vision swim.

The elevator ride stretched eternal, silence broken only by the mechanical hum of their ascent. She stood in the corner, still clutching her bottle, mask firmly in place. He could feel the heat radiating from her body despite the distance between them. Could smell the mix of club smoke and her skin. Could hear each controlled breath she took.

The elevator doors slid open and he could feel her eyes on his back as he unlocked the door to the apartment and stepped inside. She pushed in beside him, moving with purpose toward the hallway, toward her room—away from him. Away from the conversation they needed to have.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low as he followed her into the apartment, not

bothering to turn on any lights.

She paused mid-step but didn’t turn.

“Don’t walk away from me.” Greyson set his bottle down on the entry table with enough force that liquid sloshed over the rim.

Shadera’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath before she turned to face him. Her mask stared back at him, impassive and cold.

“Take it off,” he commanded, reaching up to remove his own. The mask came away with a soft sound, the apartment’s air cool against his exposed skin.

For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Then her fingers found the edges of her mask, lifting it from her face carefully. Her eyes met his, green and defiant and beautiful in their hatred.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked, her voice flat.

Something inside Greyson snapped. The control he’d maintained since the club, the restraint he’d forced upon himself during the drive—it all collapsed beneath the weight of her indifference.

“It’s really that easy for you?” The words tore from him, alcohol making his voice rough. “To just betray whoever you need to on a whim?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Betray you? I can’t betray someone I’m not loyal to in

the first place.”

“We had an agreement.”

“We had a threat,” she corrected, stepping closer, her finger jabbing toward his chest. “Your father’s threat. Don’t confuse that with loyalty or choice.”

Greyson matched her step, closing the distance between them. “You were really going to fucking leave knowing what would happen. To the rings. To Lira.

To Callum.”

“Don’t you dare.” Her voice dropped, dangerous now. “Don’t you dare try to make me responsible for your father’s actions.”

“But you are responsible for yours,” he snapped. “And if I hadn’t shown up, you would have chosen to leave us all here, knowing we would die because of your choice.”

“I want out!” The bottle in her hand swung wide with her gesture, liquid splashing onto the floor. “I want freedom from this fucking prison you call home. I want to stop playing house with the Heart’s Executioner.”

Greyson refused to flinch at her words. “Is that what we are doing? Playing house?”

“What else would you call it?” She laughed, the sound harsh and grating.

“You can call me your fiancée all you want, but I am your prisoner. That’s all I’ll ever be.”

Greyson stepped closer still, his height forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Is that what he was to you too? Why you left him in the Boundary so easily? Just another jailer keeping the infamous Shade tied down?

Or did you actually give a fuck about him when you betrayed him too.”

Something flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, at the naked jealousy in his voice.

“I have never betrayed him,” Shadera hissed up at him. “You don’t know anything about him, about us.”

“I know enough.” His voice hardened. “I know he was ready to get you killed.

To risk everything on a fucking suicide mission that would’ve ended with both of you dead.”

“At least he was willing to try.” Her voice rose, edged with something raw. “At least he was willing to fight for me.”

“And I wasn’t?” Greyson demanded. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing since you got here? Sitting back and enjoying the show? I’m fighting every day—against my father, against the Heart, against this whole fucking system— just to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.”

Her lips curled. “While still doing his bidding. While still playing Executioner.” She took another drink, her eyes never leaving his. “And what about your little reunion with Maya? Don’t talk to me about Jameson when you were so quick to disappear upstairs with her.”

The accusation startled a harsh laugh from him. “Is that what you thought that was? You jealous, Daggermouth?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Shadera’s tone dripped venom. “I couldn’t care less who you fuck.”

“I wasn’t fucking her,” Greyson snapped. “I was getting information. About my father’s plans, about the military base, about the bombs he’s threatening to drop on your precious Boundary. She hears things in those clubs.”

“How convenient,” she mocked. “I’m sure her hands all over you was just part of the exchange.”

“Careful, Shade.” His voice lowered to a dangerous register. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

They were close now, nearly touching. Greyson could smell the whiskey on her breath, could see the flush spreading across her cheeks, the rapid pulse at her throat. Her anger was a tangible thing between them, reflecting his own, beat for beat.

“I care about surviving,” she said, her voice dropping to match his. “I care about getting out of this alive.”

“Is that why you kept that tablet?” he asked. “The one tucked into your back pocket? Or is it merely for staying in touch with your lover?”

Her eyes widened fractionally, but she recovered quickly. “I’ll use whatever tools I can get.”

“And what about me?” Greyson’s hand came up, not quite touching her hair, hovering in the charged space between them. “Am I just another tool for you to use?”

Her breath caught, her eyes dropping briefly to his lips before snapping back up. The moment stretched between them, taut and electric.

Then a red dot appeared on the wall beside them.

Greyson reacted on instinct, grabbing Shadera and pulling her to the floor just as the glass of the nearby window spiderwebbed with an impact.

“Stay down,” he hissed, his body covering hers as his hand reached for the gun holstered at his shoulder.

She stiffened beneath him, then went completely still as the sound of movement registered from within the apartment—soft footfalls, the rustle of fabric, the nearly imperceptible click of a safety being disengaged.

“We’re not alone,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

Greyson’s mind raced, adrenaline cutting through the alcohol fog. The apartment should have been secure, the security system engaged. Someone had overridden his protocols, which meant only one thing—Veyra.

He moved off Shadera, pressing her against the wall as he unholstered his gun.

Shadera’s eyes were wide but focused, her breathing controlled. Not fear— calculation. “Give me a weapon,” she demanded, her voice steady.

“No.” Greyson checked the magazine, then chambered a round.

“Are you fucking insane? We’re under attack and you won’t—”

“Figure it out.” He met her eyes, saw the fury there, the disbelief, and smirked at her. “You’re resourceful.”

Before she could respond, he was moving, cracking the balcony door and firing two shots at the sniper position. Return fire erupted immediately.

The apartment broke into chaos.

Veyra officers materialized from concealment points throughout his apartment—behind furniture, from closets, from his fucking bedroom. They’d been here. Waiting. Their weapons were already drawn, faces concealed behind reflective visors.

“Don’t shoot. By order of President Serel,” the lead officer began, “we are instructed to—”

Greyson didn’t wait for him to finish. He fired twice, hitting the man center mass. The officer staggered back, his sentence ending in a wet gurgle as blood bubbled from beneath his visor.

The remaining four opened fire simultaneously, filling the air with the deafening crack of gunshots. Greyson rolled behind the coffee table and overturned it, splinters flying as bullets tore into the wood.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shadera moving—a blur of deadly grace as she used the chaos to her advantage. She slid across the floor, grabbing a decorative metal sculpture from a side table and hurling it with precision at the nearest officer. It connected with his visor, cracking it and momentarily blinding him.

In that split second of distraction, she was on him, her legs wrapping around his torso as she used her momentum to bring him crashing to the ground. She grabbed his gun as they fell, twisting it from his grip and firing a single shot through his throat before rolling away from the spray of arterial blood.

Greyson took down a second officer with a clean head shot through the helmet, the round exploding out the back of his head. Blood sprayed across the white wall behind him, a violent Rorschach test on the pristine surface. The third managed to get off a shot that whistled past Greyson’s ear before taking two rounds to the chest as he turned his attention to Shadera. The fourth was more cautious, retreating to the kitchen where he had better cover.

“Executioner,” the man called, his voice distorted by his helmet. “Stand down. These are the President’s orders.”

“Fuck the President,” Greyson replied, signaling to Shadera with his free hand. She nodded once, understanding passing between them.

Greyson fired three more shots to keep the officer pinned down while Shadera circled around, coming at him from the opposite side. The officer,

focused on Greyson, didn’t see her until it was too late. She fired twice, the bullets finding gaps in his armor at the neck and armpit. He crumpled, weapon clattering to the floor.

Another two officers appeared from their places on the balcony while Greyson was distracted, and one was on him before he could react. He tackled him backward into the entryway table, the glass mirror shattering as they fell to the floor.

Shadera was rolling behind the island as shots rang out above her, but she kept moving toward the second officer, launching herself at his legs. They went down together, a tangle of limbs.

Greyson couldn’t help, couldn’t even watch as the Veyra’s fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back against the floor. Stars bloomed across his vision, but instinct kept him moving. He brought his knee up hard between the man’s legs, earning a strangled cry of pain. As the officer’s grip loosened, Greyson twisted, reversing their positions.

His gun was gone, knocked away in the attack. It didn’t matter. He brought his elbow down against the man’s throat with crushing force, feeling cartilage give way beneath the impact. The officer’s eyes bulged, hands clawing desperately at Greyson’s face, at his arms, at anything they could reach.

Greyson struck again. And again. Until the hands fell away. He wrapped his fingers around the Veyra’s head, snapping his neck in one motion, and the body beneath him went still.

His focus snapped back to Shadera, watching as she pointed a gun beneath the officer’s helmet and pulled the trigger. His eyes caught movement behind her as an injured officer rose to his knees, blood streaming out of his body in heavy rivers, and raised a gun at Shadera’s back.

“Down!” Greyson shouted, diving for his fallen weapon.

Shadera dropped instantly, the officer’s shot passing through the space where her head had been. Greyson’s fingers closed around his gun, rolling to his back as he slid across the floor toward her and fired a shot.

One. Two. Three rounds.

The officer’s chest blossomed red, bullets tearing through flesh. He stayed upright for only a second before collapsing onto his back with a heavy thud.

Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing. Greyson pushed himself to his feet, scanning the apartment for any remaining threats. Seven officers. All dead.

Shadera stood in the center of the carnage, blood spattered across her face and clothes, the stolen gun still gripped tightly in her hand. She looked savage and beautiful, her eyes wild, her chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline.

“Are there more?” she asked, eyes assessing.

“No,” Greyson answered, then paused, uncertain. “Maybe. I can’t be sure.”

Their eyes met across the bloodied floor, both drunk and disoriented from the attack, both aware of how close they’d come to death. Something shifted in the air between them, a current of energy that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with survival, with being alive when they should be dead.

Shadera’s arm rose slowly, the gun now trained directly at Greyson’s chest.

Her hand was steady despite the alcohol in her system.

“Drop it,” he snarled, but didn’t raise his own weapon in response.

“Why should I?” Her voice was low, dangerous. “Give me one reason not to put a bullet in you right now, complete my contract and walk out that door.”

Greyson stepped toward her, unflinching as the gun tracked his movement.

“Because you’d never make it past the first checkpoint.”

“Try again.”

Another step.

“Because if you kill me, my father will burn the Boundary to ash.”

“Not good enough.” The gun didn’t waver.

He took a final step, close enough now that the barrel of the gun pressed against his sternum. He could feel her breath on his face, see the pulse jumping in her throat and his hands twitched at his sides. Need filled his veins at the masterpiece she was, covered in their shared violence.

“If you shoot me,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “it will only make me want to fuck you.”

Her lips parted slightly, pupils dilating. She licked her lips, and the sight made his cock harden as she held the gun steady against his chest. Then, deliberately, she flicked off the safety.

“If you even think about it, I will kill you.”

Greyson grinned, the expression feral and hungry. “Then I’m already a dead man.”

Her breath hitched at his words, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then Shadera pulled the trigger.

The gun discharged with a silenced crack just as Greyson spun away, the bullet grazing his side, tearing through fabric and skin. Pain bloomed hot and sharp, but instead of falling back, he surged forward, his own gun firing instinctively. His bullet grazed her thigh, drawing a line of red across the black fabric of her pants.

“You shot me,” she gasped, looking down at her leg in disbelief before raising her eyes to his face.

“You shot me first,” he countered, his free hand pressing against the wound in his side, coming away red.

They stared at each other, both bleeding, both breathing hard, the air between them electric with something that had been building since the moment

she’d entered his life.

One heartbeat passed. Then two.

Greyson wasn’t sure who moved first as they collided with the force of two storms meeting. His gun clattered to the floor as his hands found her waist, her back, her hair. Her weapon fell beside his as her fingers dug into his shoulders, his neck, pulling him down to her with desperate strength.

Their mouths crashed together, all teeth and tongues and fury. She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and he groaned as he backed her against the wall.

His body pinned hers as his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He bit at the tender skin there, drawing a gasp from her that sent fire through his veins.

This is a terrible fucking idea, a voice in the back of his mind warned. The worst possible idea.

His body didn’t care. His blood sang with the need to possess her, to claim her, to make her his in the most primal way possible. Her hands clawed at his back, nails digging into his skin through the torn fabric of his shirt. The pain only fueled his desire, a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure of her body against his.

This was wrong. Every part of his mind screamed it as his body responded to hers with an intensity that bordered on violence.

Her hands tore at his shirt, nails raking across his chest, and he forgot why this was a bad idea as she pulled it over his head.

“Fuck,” Shadera breathed as his teeth scraped along her collarbone. “This doesn’t—this doesn’t change anything.”

“Shut up,” Greyson growled against her skin. His hands moved to her thighs, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her back arching as he pressed her harder against the wall.

One of his hands found its way to her throat, fingers wrapping around the delicate column with careful pressure. He knew what she wanted, what she liked. And he would give her everything she needed. Her eyes fluttered at the contact, a small, helpless sound escaping her that undid him. The power of it— her vulnerability, her surrender—was intoxicating.

He carried her to the kitchen island, sweeping bottles and glasses to the floor with one arm. They shattered at his feet, adding to the destruction around them.

He set her on the edge of the counter, his mouth never leaving hers, his hands pushing beneath her shirt to find the warm skin beneath.

She was fucking perfect—all lean muscle and soft curves, strength and femininity combined in a lethal package that fit against him like she’d been made for his hands. His fingers traced the outline of her breasts, brushing over her hard nipples, and the moan that vibrated through her chest nearly brought him to his knees.

And when she bit into his shoulder hard enough to mark, he thought he might lose his fucking mind.

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He undid the button on her pants, then the zipper. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as his fingers slid under the fabric and he groaned against her neck as they were greeted with her dripping arousal.

She was so fucking wet, and every ounce of it was for him.

“Shit,” he breathed through his teeth as his fingers began to circle her clit, and moan after moan spilled from her lungs.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever fucking heard.

He paused for one moment, bringing his lips back to hers, running his tongue over her bottom lip before plunging two fingers inside of her. A cry erupted from Shadera’s throat as he pumped them in and out slowly, burying them deeper inside her with every thrust. Her body clung to him, pulling him deeper, and a groan vibrated out of his lungs at the feeling.

Everything blurred as she began to ride his hand, pushing her hips down onto him and rolling them.

He was going to fuck her. And he would not be gentle.

He pushed his mouth to her ear as his fingers sank all the way inside of her. “I need you to tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it or tell me to stop right now. Because I will not be soft with you. I’m going to make you fucking scream for me, Shadera.”

Her answer was a devastating roll of her hips and a moan, then words. “Do your fucking worst, little heir.”

A growl left Greyson’s mouth, his cock hardening at her words as he pushed another finger inside of her. He worked his way down her body with his lips as her hands curled into his hair. His tongue and teeth trailed fire along her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast above her shirt. Greyson pushed the fabric up with his free hand, exposing her stomach, the taut plane of muscles there contrasting with the softness of her skin.

His tongue swirled over the lace fabric across her nipples, nipping at them.

Her breath hitched as she arched further into him, a breathy groan slipping from her lips. He traced a path further down her body, his tongue tracing a path along her waistband as he reluctantly pulled his fingers from inside of her to remove her pants.

Greyson’s fingers hooked around the fabric, her hips rising as two things fell

from her pocket.

They both froze.

Greyson’s eyes locked on the photograph. Him and Brooker, unmasked, smiling. The photograph from his bedroom. The one he’d hidden. The one no one else should have.

He pulled back, his hands leaving her body as he bent to retrieve both items.

“Where did you get this?” His voice had gone cold, all heat evaporating in an instant.

She slid off the island, adjusting her clothes. “Does it matter?”

“Where did you get this?” he repeated, anger replacing every other emotion.

She met his gaze steadily. “Who is he?”

Greyson stepped back, the distance between them growing with each heartbeat. The reminder of what she was, of who she was, hit him with excruciating force as he stared at the picture then looked up at her.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward his bedroom, the photograph and tablet clutched in his hand. He could feel her eyes on his back, as he left the bodies and the wreckage behind, but she didn’t follow, didn’t call after him.

The door slammed behind him as he drove his fist into the wall hard enough to puncture the plaster. Pain lanced up his arm, grounding him, clearing his head from the desire, the alcohol.

He leaned his forehead against the door, breathing hard, the taste of her still on his lips, the memory of her body against his burned into his skin. What had he been thinking? What had he almost done?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

The patrol vehicle rattled beneath Jameson. His body was present—clothed in enemy colors, surrounded by his team, crossing back into the Boundary—but his mind remained in that blue-lit room. The stolen Veyra helmet felt heavier than before, the armor more restrictive.

No one spoke. The mission’s failure hung in the compartment like poison gas, seeping into his lungs, clouding his mind. Seven of them had entered the Heart. Seven were returning. The numbers should have been a success—no casualties, no injuries beyond minor scrapes. But the empty space where Shadera should have been rendered the statistics meaningless.

Jameson stared through the reflective faceplate of his helmet at his team.

Scout cleaned blood from beneath her fingernails with mechanical precision.

Breach stared at his hands, palms up, as if reading a future that no longer

included Shadera. Comms monitored Veyra frequencies, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against his thigh. Sniper, Trace, and Medic sat with the perfect stillness of assassins, conserving energy, processing failure. And Jaeger… Jaeger watched him from behind his own faceplate, waiting.

Through the partition, Jameson could see the rigid line of Captain Mikel’s shoulders as he navigated the streets back to the checkpoint. Mikel’s betrayal of the Heart should have felt like victory. Instead, it made his stomach churn—one more complication in a world already fractured beyond recognition.

“Did you know?” The words broke through the silence like a gunshot, his voice amplified inside the helmet.

No one moved, but he felt the collective tension rise. Jaeger’s helmet tilted toward him.

“Did you know,” Jameson repeated, each word carved from ice, “that she’s to be vowed to Serel?”

Jaeger didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his head turned toward the partition, toward Mikel, who remained focused on the road ahead. A silent calculation passed between them, visible only in the subtle shift of posture.

“Yes.” The single word fell between them, heavy and final.

The rage that surged through Jameson’s veins was so potent he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for his weapon. The metal wall beside him suddenly seemed the perfect target for his fury, but he kept himself still, contained, dangerous.

“You knew.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “You knew, and you sent me in there anyway. You let me walk into the Heart believing I could bring her

home.”

“I thought—”

“You thought what?” Jameson snapped, cutting him off. “That she’d see me and magically decide to come with us? That she’d break the arrangement they forced on her because I showed up?”

He reached up, yanking off his helmet in a single violent motion. The recycled air hit his face, cooling the sweat that had gathered along his hairline.

He wanted Jaeger to see his face, to see every ounce of the betrayal carved into it.

“Put that back on,” Mikel hissed from the front seat, his eyes finding Jameson’s in the rearview mirror. “We’re still in Heart territory.”

“Fuck your territory,” Jameson snarled, but he kept his voice low enough not to carry outside the vehicle.

Jaeger removed his own helmet, his gray eyes meeting Jameson’s without flinching. The old man’s face was impassive, his mouth set in a grim line.

“I believed that seeing you might remind her of where she belongs,” Jaeger said, his voice steady. “I believed that given the choice between the Boundary and the Heart, between you and the Executioner, she would choose correctly.”

“There was no choice.” Jameson’s words were raw, stripped of pretense. “Do you understand that? She can’t leave because Maximus has threatened to bomb the Boundary if she doesn’t go through with it.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the vehicle’s hum seemed to fade away as the words sank in. Jameson watched the information ripple through the team—Scout’s fingers stilling on her blade, Breach’s head snapping up, Comms’s hands freezing over his equipment.

Jaeger’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind his eyes.

“Explain.”

“The drones that were following me.” Jameson leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. “He’s learned everything with them. The President knows where our clinics are, the camps, headquarters. He knows where all of it is. If Shadera doesn’t take the Vow, he starts dropping bombs. Beginning with me.”

His mind filled again with the image of her in that room, her face when she’d told him to leave, the way she’d backed away from his kiss. Something had changed in her. Something beyond the threat hanging over the Boundary.

“There’s more.” He looked directly at Jaeger now. “Those medical supplies I’ve been getting? The ones with the Serel serial numbers? They’re from him.”

“Bullshit,” Breach muttered.

“He told me himself,” Jameson continued. “Knew the exact numbers. Used it as leverage. Said if I wanted the medicine to keep flowing into the rings, I’d leave without her.”

Jaeger’s face remained frustratingly neutral. “And you believed him?”

“Yes. Even if he isn’t smuggling it himself, he knows about it and is letting it happen,” Jameson replied. “When she confirmed what the President is planning, when she said she was staying—I saw her face. She was scared. She wasn’t lying.”

He thought of that moment again, of Shadera standing between him and Greyson, her green eyes haunted as she made her choice. Her choice to sacrifice her freedom for the Boundary. For him.

“She’s not in love with him,” Jameson said, the words coming out before he could stop them. The fear that had been gnawing at his heart since he’d seen them together demanded voice. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Jaeger raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t.”

“She doesn’t even like him,” Jameson pushed on. “She’s doing this to protect us. To protect the rings.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Jaeger asked, his voice cutting through Jameson’s defense.

The question sliced into Jameson like a blade between ribs. Because the truth was, he had seen something in that room—something in the way Shadera spoke to Greyson, the way she’d refused Jameson’s kiss—that suggested a complication he wasn’t ready to face.

Jameson deflected. “The only thing that matters is that we’re fucked. All of us. The rebellion, the Boundary, every plan we’ve made—it’s all compromised if Maximus knows where we are, what we’re doing.”

As they entered the deeper sections of the Cardinal, away from Heart surveillance, Jameson’s thoughts shifted into something harder. Shadera was trapped, yes. But she’d given him information he could use. She was still fighting, in her way. Still part of the resistance.

And she wasn’t alone anymore. She had him. Had them. Even from inside the Heart.

“This ends now,” Jameson said as they approached the Boundary. His voice carried new resolve, steel beneath the exhaustion. “No more secrets between us.

No more compartmentalized intelligence. No more separate agendas.”

Jaeger’s gaze turned toward him. “Careful, Ghost. You’re sounding dangerously close to giving me orders.”

“Not orders.” Jameson met his gaze. “An ultimatum. The Daggermouths and the rebels work together from now on. Complete transparency. Combined resources, combined intelligence, combined planning.”

“Or what?” Jaeger’s voice held no fear, only curiosity.

“Or we lose everything.” Jameson’s answer was simple. “If Maximus knows as much as he claims, if he’s really prepared to bomb the Boundary, we’re already at war. And I refuse to lose the woman I love and this fight in the same week.”

The vehicle came to a stop at the final barrier between the Cardinal and the Boundary. The team shifted, preparing to disembark, to disappear back into the shadows of their respective territories. But Jameson’s eyes remained fixed on Jaeger, waiting.

Finally, Jaeger nodded, a single sharp movement. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

“Bring Farrow to Wolf’s Head and we will meet.”

It wasn’t a full capitulation, but it was enough for now. Jameson would take it—take any victory, no matter how small, in a day defined by loss. Jaeger’s hand landed on his shoulder, giving him a small squeeze as he exited the vehicle and disappeared into the night with his unit.

Jameson took one last deep breath before he stepped out of the vehicle into the familiar grime of the Boundary, already planning his next move. Shadera might be lost to him for now, trapped in that tower with the Executioner. But the war for New Found Haven—for freedom, for the future—was just beginning.

And he would make sure she had a home to return to when it was over.