Daggermouth (The Heart, #1) — Chapter no 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Eleven

Consciousness arrived like an unwelcome guest, hammering at Shadera’s temples and setting fire to her throat. She groaned, pressing her face deeper into the pillow as memories from the night before flooded back in jagged, whiskey- soaked fragments. The club, Jameson in Veyra uniform coming to free her.

Blood. Broken glass. Bodies. Greyson’s mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, on her throat, between her legs, the weight of him against her body on the kitchen counter. Her fingers unconsciously rose to her lips, finding them tender and swollen.

“Fuck,” she whispered, the word scraping against her dry throat.

She forced herself to sit up, ignoring the protest from every muscle in her body. The room spun briefly before settling into focus. Morning light sliced through the gaps in the curtains, cutting across the bed in harsh lines and making the pounding between her ears pulse harder.

She dragged herself from the bed, noting the bandage she had wrapped around her thigh while drunk and angry in the middle of the night. The wound wasn’t deep, just a graze. It had stopped bleeding now, but the area around it was bruised and tender. Another scar to add to her collection. Another mark left on her body by Greyson Serel. It stung with every step she took as his T-shirt brushed the edges of it.

She really needed to get her own fucking clothes.

Greyson’s voice filtered down the hallway as she opened the door and she hesitated for one moment, taking a step back into the room. She didn’t want to

face him. Not after— No. She shook her head.

She needed coffee and would not let him take that away from her too.

Let him see her like this—bloodied, disheveled, unmasked in every sense. Let him see what they’d done to each other.

The living room looked worse in daylight. Bullet holes punctured the walls, furniture lay overturned, glass shards glittered across the floor like malicious stars. Blood had dried in dark patches on the floor, the white walls, the couch.

The bodies still lay where they fell, marinating in their own blood.

Her eyes roved over the room before they dragged up to look at Greyson. He stood by the cracked window, blinds drawn against the morning light, tablet pressed to his ear. He wore only sweatpants, his torso bare, revealing the full extent of the damage beneath the skull stretched across his back. The fresh graze wound from her bullet curved around his side, angry and red against his skin.

Above it, the older wound from the day they’d met was still healing, the skin puckered and pink.

His voice was low as he talked into the tablet and she took a step closer, trying to hear what he was saying, who he was speaking to.

He turned as her bare foot landed on a shard of glass, her hiss and the train of expletives that followed announcing her presence. Their eyes met across the destroyed living room, and for a moment, neither moved. The call continued, his voice lowering further, but his eyes stayed on her. Watching. Waiting.

Shadera felt exposed, vulnerable as the memory of his hands on her body, his mouth against her skin, swarmed her mind at the sight of him shirtless in front of her. The silence stretched between them, loaded and awkward until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“You know,” she said, voice rough from sleep and liquor, “you really need to learn how to dodge. That’s twice now I’ve shot you. Pattern’s emerging.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Just get here,” Greyson said, then ended the call without waiting for a response and set the tablet on what remained of the coffee table. “Maybe you should learn to use your words like an adult instead of just shooting me.”

She turned away to hide the smile threatening to break free, moving toward the kitchen. Coffee. She needed coffee to deal with whatever this was, needed distance from his bare skin and the memories it evoked.

The body that’d been on the kitchen floor last night was the only one moved, creating a path to the coffee machine that was miraculously untouched by the violence. She poured a cup, black, strong enough to strip paint. The first sip

burned, perfect in its bitterness. She moved to lift herself onto the island, then

froze.

The island.

Images flashed—his hands on her throat, her legs around his waist, the desperate hunger of their kiss. Heat crawled up her neck, and she quickly moved away, leaning against the counter instead, shaking the thoughts from her mind.

“About the bodies,” she said, needing to fill the silence with something, anything else.

Greyson sighed, running a hand through his hair. The gesture was unguarded, tired. “Callum’s coming with his men. They’ll handle it.”

“Handle it how?”

“The way he handles everything. Efficiently. Quietly.” He moved closer, stopping at the opposite end of the counter, maintaining distance but closing it enough that she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “We should talk about last

night.”

“No.”

“Shadera—”

“I was drunk.” The words came out too fast, too sharp. “Whatever happened, I’ve already forgotten it. Blackout. Complete memory loss. Medical marvel, really.”

He watched her, that intense gaze that seemed to see through every lie she’d ever told. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.” She met his stare. “And if you ever try to touch me again, I’ll kill you. Properly this time. No more grazes.”

The threat hung between them, hollow even to her own ears. She’d already shot him twice and it’d only seemed to turn him on. She wasn’t sure what that said about either of them.

Something shifted in his expression and Greyson’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Wasn’t what I meant, but I’m glad to see it’s so heavy on your mind.”

She opened her mouth to respond—to deny, to threaten, to do something— when a knock echoed through the apartment.

Three sharp raps. Measured. Deliberate.

Greyson’s entire demeanor changed instantly. The smile vanished, replaced by alertness. His hand went to the back of his waistband, drawing the gun he tucked there. He moved toward the door with careful steps, keeping to the side, out of direct line of fire.

“Who is it?” he called, his voice neutral.

“It’s Callum,” he snapped. “Open the fucking door before someone sees me standing here like an idiot.”

Greyson’s shoulders relaxed. He peered through the peephole, then unlocked the door, keeping the gun partially hidden behind his leg as he pulled it open.

Callum stood in the doorway with a briefcase in hand, wearing an impeccable suit despite the early hour, not a hair out of place, looking like he’d stepped from a magazine rather than arrived to clean up a massacre.

He walked into the apartment, removing his mask before looking up to see Shadera’s eyes pinned on him in surprise. Right. She didn’t know him well enough yet to understand that he did not give a single fuck about masking policies.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said to Greyson, eyes still focused on Shadera as he took in her appearance. “Rough night?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered into her coffee.

Callum’s gaze swept the apartment again, taking in the blood, the bullet holes, the destroyed furniture. His eyebrows rose slightly. “Well, this is festive.

Very avant-garde. Very ‘murder chic.’”

“Are your men with you?” Greyson asked, ignoring his commentary.

“Headed up. But first—” Callum’s eyes darted between them, noting something in their positioning, their careful distance, the tension that crackled in the air. “You two have that guilty look.”

“Cal—” Greyson started.

“I know, I know, there are much more important things to worry about than whatever sick fuck you two had in a room full of dead bodies.” He winked at Greyson. “But we’ll definitely be circling back to that later.”

“We didn’t—” Shadera began to protest.

Callum’s hand shot up as a chuckle slipped over his lips. “I am not here to judge your murder foreplay.”

His men appeared at his back on the tail of his words, dragging a hooded Veyra officer through the doorway.

“Found him on Haven Tower’s roof,” Callum explained, watching as both Greyson and Shadera tensed. “Had quite the setup—long-range audio equipment, visual surveillance, a sniper rifle, the works. All pointed at this apartment.”

The guilty looks intensified. Oh, they’d definitely been up to something. The air between them practically vibrated with it—that particular tension that came from either fighting or fucking, and knowing these two, probably both. Callum filed the observation away for later torment.

“Where?” Greyson asked, his voice taking on that cold edge that Callum knew meant someone was about to have a very bad day.

“Weapons room,” Callum suggested. “It’s soundproof.” He turned to his men. “Start the cleanup. I want this place pristine in three hours.”

They nodded, releasing their captive into Callum’s grip before moving through the apartment, assessing the damage and beginning their work. Callum pulled the officer forward as he followed Greyson toward the hallway.

Shadera fell into step beside them, curious rather than disturbed. “Why did you bring him here instead of killing him?”

“Information,” Callum replied simply. “Dead men aren’t very helpful, but the living can be quite chatty with the right motivation.”

The officer’s whimpering escalated to sobbing as they dragged him down the hallway. “Please,” the officer gasped through the hood. “Please, I was just following orders. I have a family—”

“Shh,” Callum soothed, patting the man’s shoulder gently. “We’re not going to hurt you. Well, not badly. Not if you cooperate.”

The lies came easily. They always did.

The solid iron door had been tampered with—faint scratch marks visible around the electronic lock. Callum smirked, glancing at Shadera with a knowing look as Greyson keyed in the code then pushed his palm to the scanner. The room opened up before them, revealing the steel walls lined with racks of

firearms, blades, and more specialized equipment that formed a perfect cube of lethal possibility.

In the center stood a metal table flanked by two chairs, with a single overhead light illuminating the scene like an operating theater. Greyson didn’t bother shutting the door at his back.

“If I didn’t know better,” Callum started, shoving the officer into a chair, “I’d think you were a serial killer.”

“Says the man with a torture briefcase,” Greyson replied dryly, nodding to the case in Callum’s hand.

He smiled, setting the briefcase on the table with care. “It’s not torture, it’s enhanced interrogation. And it’s an art form.”

Greyson zip-tied the officer’s wrists and ankles to the chair quickly. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Sometimes Callum forgot that beneath the brooding and moral conflicts, his friend was still a Serel. Still trained from birth in the application of violence.

Callum took his time preparing. Half of interrogation was theater, after all.

He rolled up his sleeves slowly, each fold exact. His rings came off, one by one, placing them in a perfect line on the metal table, their surfaces catching the overhead light.

The briefcase opened with a soft click. Inside, his tools lay in custom foam cutouts—hammers of various sizes, pliers, scalpels, and other implements he’d collected over the years. Some innovations of his own.

He noticed as Shadera perched on the table’s edge, legs swinging slightly.

Greyson leaned against it beside her, close enough that their elbows touched.

Neither pulled away. In fact, they seemed unconscious of the contact, like their bodies had developed their own gravity, independent of their minds’ protests.

Fascinating.

Callum wondered, as he turned to face the officer, if Greyson had ever noticed these same small tells between him and Lira. If he had also filed away questions that he never asked.

He pushed the thought from his mind and refocused, reaching for the hood and pulling it from the officer’s head to reveal an older man, mid-fifties. His eyes

went wide as his vision was restored, frantically fluttering around the room at the three unmasked faces staring back at him.

“Now,” Callum started, selecting a small hammer from his collection, testing its weight in his palm. “Let’s establish some ground rules. I ask questions. You answer truthfully. Each lie, each refusal costs you something.” He tapped the hammer against his palm for emphasis. “Each truth buys you time.”

Callum watched as Greyson crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the officer like he was studying the fear building in his eyes.

This was Callum as few ever saw him—the mask set aside to reveal the calculating creature beneath. The Broker, the collector of secrets, the man who knew how to extract information from even the most resistant source.

“Let’s start simple,” Callum said, pulling up a chair to sit directly in front of the man. “Name and unit?”

“M-Marcus Webb, sir. Special Security Division.”

“Good.” Callum’s voice was warm with approval. “Very good. And who ordered you to surveil the Executioner, Marcus?”

The officer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Captain Mikel.

Direct orders from—from the President.”

No surprise there. Maximus was getting paranoid, as dying kings often did.

“And what exactly were you looking for?” he continued, leaning back in his chair casually.

Marcus hesitated, his eyes darting to Greyson, then back to him. “Evidence of… disloyalty.”

“Disloyalty,” Callum repeated, tasting the word. “Fair enough. What kind of disloyalty was Maximus concerned about?”

Another hesitation, longer this time. Callum sighed, his expression one of exaggerated disappointment. He moved without warning, the hammer connecting with Marcus’s knuckle on his right ring finger. Bone shattered with a wet crunch, and he screamed, the sound bouncing off the metal walls.

“I told you the rules,” he reminded Marcus gently, returning to his relaxed position. “Now, I’ll ask again. What specific disloyalty was Maximus looking for?”

“Divided loyalties,” Marcus gasped through clenched teeth. “He said the Executioner’s sympathies might be compromised by the Daggermouth whore.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Shadera tense, saw the way Greyson shifted

forward, almost in protection of her.

That was all Callum needed to see.

The hammer came down again on his right pointer finger, bone splintering as another scream broke from Marcus’s throat. Callum stayed leaning forward this time, elbows resting on his knees.

“I don’t know if you know this about me, but I loathe misogyny.” His voice was colder now. “That Daggermouth ‘whore’, as you called her, has a name. And if the tension in this room tells me anything, it’s that she is certainly no harlot.”

Callum looked to Shadera, watching the satisfied smirk spread across her lips as she gave him a subtle nod of approval before he turned back to Marcus.

“The team last night,” he started again. “What were their orders?”

“Install updated surveillance,” Marcus replied quickly, clearly eager to avoid further pain. “Replace the faulty audio and visual throughout the apartment.

Report directly on their interactions.”

“Were they authorized to use lethal force?” Greyson interjected.

The officer swallowed again, his gaze flickering between Callum’s hammer and Greyson’s face. “N-no.”

“Then what prompted them to do so?” Callum asked.

“They got spooked. Th-the Executioner wasn’t supposed to be back so soon.” Sweat was pouring off Marcus now, beads rolling over both temples.

Callum turned to Greyson. “Well, last night seems to be nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding. Should be easy enough to get around, since they were in your home where you currently house the Boundary’s most prized possession. This is nothing more than self-defense.”

“S-so that means you’ll let me go. That means I-I can go home now.”

Marcus’s voice was pleading, the sound so pathetic it made Callum’s stomach churn.

The Veyra were nothing more than little boys who liked the power of a gun in their hand, but when it finally came time to be men—they failed on every front.

“No.” Callum’s voice had lost all warmth. “I have some questions of my own.”

Greyson straightened and Shadera’s legs stopped swinging. There were things his best friend didn’t know about him. Things he had kept hidden, so if caught, Greyson and Lira would not be collateral damage. Callum glanced at Greyson, his palms suddenly sweaty. He wanted to believe he knew Greyson well enough to know that what he heard next would not put Callum on the platform.

“Now, Marcus, these next questions will be harder. You’re not going to want to answer them, but you will. You’re going to tell me about the military base.

About what they’re doing there. About why Cardinal workers are being held.”

The hammer spun lazily in his fingers. “Or I’m going to move on to other bones in your body that will cause much more pain. Your choice.”

Marcus’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound emerged.

The hammer fell with surgical precision. Marcus’s scream filled the weapons room, ricocheting off the walls as his kneecap cracked in half. Bone protruded through skin, through fabric as blood began to pool and spread across the polished concrete floor in a pattern Callum had seen countless times before.

“Let’s try again,” Callum said, his voice returning to that light and conversational tone despite the violence of his actions. “The base.”

The officer’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving beneath the blood-spattered Veyra uniform. Blood still trickled from his split lip, a souvenir from his capture.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I swear on the Heart, I don’t know.”

Callum sighed, turning the hammer over in his hands. “That’s disappointing.

Davish Cross was much more forthcoming.”

Marcus’s head snapped up at the name, fear flashing across his features.

“Cross? You… you questioned Cross?”

“I did.” Callum circled the chair. “He had quite a lot to say about diverted resources from the Cardinal and Boundary rings. Supply chains that disappeared. Food shipments that never arrived.” He paused behind the officer, leaning close to his ear. “He screamed beautifully when I removed his fingernails, one by one.”

The lie slid easily from Callum’s tongue. Davish Cross had required nothing more in their second conversation than the threat of additional pain to reveal what he knew. But the officer didn’t need to know that.

“Please,” the man whispered, “I’m just following orders.”

“Ah, the eternal excuse of the morally bankrupt,” Callum replied, moving back into the officer’s line of sight. “But you see, that’s not good enough for me.

Not when those orders mean children starving in the Boundary.”

He brought the hammer down again, this time on the officer’s right elbow.

The crack of bone was followed by another scream, this one higher, more desperate. Callum glanced at Greyson, seeking some reaction, but the Executioner remained still, observing.

What would Greyson think if he knew the full extent of Callum’s activities?

For years, he’d been walking the edge, using his position to gather intelligence, to filter supplies and information to the rebellion. Greyson knew some of it—the men and women from the lower rings he’d given jobs to help them escape poverty and feed their families, the occasional food that “went missing” from his clubs—but not the deeper involvement, the nights spent in secret meetings with rebel leaders, the encrypted messages passed through his network of informants.

“Answers, Marcus.”

“I don’t—”

The hammer came down on the officer’s left wrist. Blood sprayed across Callum’s chest, dotting the pristine black of his shirt with crimson.

“You’re being tedious,” Callum said, wiping a speck of blood from the fabric.

“And I have a very busy schedule today.”

From her position on the table, Shadera finally spoke. “Maybe he needs more motivation.” Her voice carried a cruel edge that sent a shiver through the room.

“I could start removing pieces. Ears first, perhaps?”

Callum smiled. He liked her more than he’d expected. There was something refreshing about her directness, her lack of pretense.

“An excellent suggestion,” he agreed, watching Marcus’s face drain of color.

“Though I was thinking of moving to larger targets.” He placed the hammer against his jaw, applying just enough pressure to promise pain.

“Wait!” Marcus’s voice cracked. “Wait, please—I don’t know specifics. It’s classified within lower Veyra ranks.”

“But you do know general plans,” Callum pressed.

“Yes.” Marcus’s head dropped, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders.

“Population adjustment. I don’t know anything else.”

“You’re lying,” Callum said softly, raising the hammer.

“I’m not—”

The hammer crashed down onto Marcus’s other kneecap with devastating force. The scream that followed was primal, tearing from his throat as his body convulsed against the restraints. Blood and fragments of bone sprayed across the floor, some landing on Callum’s boots. The visceral display of violence didn’t faze him. He’d done worse, much worse, in rooms similar to this one across the Heart.

“You have more fingers, another elbow, and various other appendages to work with,” Callum said, once the screaming subsided to whimpers. “How much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice for Maximus Serel?”

The officer’s face had gone gray with pain, sweat beading on his forehead.

“You don’t understand,” he gasped. “He’ll kill my family if I talk.”

“He’ll kill everyone if you don’t,” Shadera interjected, sliding off the table and gesturing her head toward Callum. She approached the chair, crouching to meet Marcus’s gaze. “Including your family.”

Callum wouldn’t, actually. He had a strict moral code even if flawed. No children, no women. But if it helped to get information, he’d let Shadera use the threat.

“We know about the bombs. Give us details,” Shadera replied, putting pressure on his shattered knee.

Marcus hissed in pain as Callum’s eyes shot to her. She already knew about the bombs. He had only learned about them yesterday in his interrogation with Davish. What else did she know?

“The… bombs…” Marcus’s breath came in shallow pants. “They aren’t normal. They’re designed specifically for the rings.”

Callum felt his stomach twist. “What kind are they?”

“Gas. They’re gas bombs.” His words tumbled out now, pain and fear loosening his tongue. “The President says the rings have become too populated, too unmanageable. He’s been testing them on the Cardinal workers—th-that’s why they haven’t gone home. They’re dead. They’re all dead. He’s calling it the

Culling.”

The Culling.

Callum’s hand tightened around the hammer’s handle until his knuckles ached.

“When?” Greyson demanded, stepping forward. “When is this Culling scheduled to begin?”

“I-I don’t know. I just know it’s happening. Th-that they have perfected the gas.”

“And the deployment plan?” Callum pressed. “Which sectors are targeted first?”

The officer hesitated, his gaze darting between the three of them. “All of it.

The gas was created with mapping molecules. It’s designed to stop at the Heart’s border.”

Callum’s eyes met Greyson’s, fear passing between them. This was worse than anything he had expected, anything he could have imagined. This was hundreds of thousands of people. Men, women, and children.

“Why?” Shadera asked, her voice strained. “Why would he do this?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched. “He is making room for something.”

Greyson went perfectly still, a dangerous energy radiating from him.

Callum opened his mouth to press for more details, hammer raised and ready to strike, when a voice came from the doorway.

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, horror evident in every syllable. She stood frozen, taking in the blood-spattered floor, the bound and broken officer, the hammer in Callum’s hand.

The three of them stared at her, caught in a tableau of violence. Callum lowered the hammer slowly, shame burning through him at being discovered like this. Not the torture itself—he’d long ago reconciled himself to the necessity of such actions—but that Lira, of all people, should see this side of him. The side he’d worked so hard to keep away from her.

“Lira.” Greyson recovered first, stepping forward. “How did you get in here?”

She held up a cluster of keys, her hand trembling slightly. “I used my key. No one answered when I called or knocked, but I knew you were home.” Her eyes moved from Greyson to Shadera, then finally settled on Callum, lingering on the blood that covered his clothes, his hands, his face. “What is this?”

Callum couldn’t bear the way she looked at him, as if seeing a stranger wearing the face of someone she trusted. He set the hammer down on the table, wishing he could wipe away the evidence of what he’d been doing, what he was capable of.

“We needed information,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

“Information that could save thousands of lives.”

Lira’s eyes moved to Marcus, whose consciousness seemed to be fading, his head lolling forward as blood continued to pool beneath his shattered knees.

“By torturing a Veyra officer in my brother’s apartment?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.

“Li,” Greyson began, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“Don’t ‘Li’ me,” she snapped. “How long has this been going on? How long have you been…” She gestured at the scene before her, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe what she was seeing.

Callum felt something crack inside him. The careful wall he’d built between his life as Callum Thane, charming owner of Heart entertainment venues, and his other life—the one filled with blood and information and desperate measures —was crumbling before his eyes. And with it, any hope that Lira could see him as anything but the monster he truly was.

The weight of her gaze burned through him as he wiped his hands on a cloth, the blood smearing rather than cleaning, a fitting metaphor for the moment.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the wet, labored breathing of the Veyra officer strapped to the chair.

“We should move to the living room,” Callum suggested, his voice unnaturally calm. He glanced at Greyson, seeking some confirmation, some direction. Greyson only nodded.

“What about him?” Shadera asked, gesturing toward the bloodied officer with a tilt of her head.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Greyson replied, his tone flat.

Lira flinched at the words, her shoulders drawing tight beneath her elegant dress. She stepped back from the doorway, allowing them to file past her. Callum moved last, pausing beside her with words of explanation or comfort ready on his tongue. But when he met her eyes through the openings in her mask, the words died. There was no explanation he could offer that would erase what she’d seen, no comfort that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

The living room still bore the marks of violence. Though the bodies were now gone, the furniture placed upright and glass swept up, his cleaning crews still worked methodically, removing bloodstains from every surface. One worker was carefully removing a shattered mirror, while another scrubbed at dark patches on the kitchen floor. They studiously avoided looking at the four of them as they entered the room, their training ensuring that nothing they witnessed would ever be repeated outside these walls.

Callum sank into an armchair, suddenly aware of the dried blood flaking from his clothes, his hands, beneath his fingernails. Lira chose the farthest seat from him, perching on the edge of a sofa as if ready to flee at any moment.

Greyson remained standing, his posture rigid, while Shadera claimed a spot on the arm of a chair next to Greyson, her body language suggesting casual indifference despite the tension filling the room.

“There were Veyra officers in the apartment last night,” Greyson began without preamble, his voice controlled. “We dealt with them.”

Callum watched as Lira’s posture shifted in understanding.

“And the torture?” Lira asked, turning back to her brother. “Was that your idea?”

“Mine.” Callum spoke before Greyson could answer. “We needed information. About your father’s plans.”

Greyson’s head turned toward Callum, the motion sharp and sudden.

“Speaking of plans,” he said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, “when were you going to tell me you’ve been helping the rebellion?”

The question hung in the air between them, years of friendship suddenly caught in their secrets. Callum didn’t immediately answer, weighing his response carefully. The truth was, he’d never planned to tell Greyson. Not because he didn’t trust him, but because knowledge was dangerous in the Heart. What Greyson didn’t know, he couldn’t betray—willingly or otherwise.

“That’s fucking rich coming from you,” Shadera cut in, a harsh laugh escaping her.

Lira turned toward her. “What does that mean?”

Shadera glanced at Greyson, and he stilled. The silence that followed felt weighted, a physical presence pressing against Callum’s chest. He looked between them, sensing some unspoken knowledge passed in that shared glance.

“Don’t,” Greyson said finally, his voice low.

Shadera’s laugh this time was bitter, cutting. “How can anyone ever trust you when you don’t even trust each other?” She stood, pacing the length of the living room with restless energy. “All of you—elite of the Heart, Veyra, children of privilege—keeping secrets from each other like it’s your fucking job.”

“Shadera,” Greyson warned, but she ignored him.

“Your brother,” she continued, turning to face Lira and pointing toward Greyson, “has been smuggling goods into the rings. Medicine. Food. Supplies.

All under your nose—your father’s nose.”

Callum felt as if the floor dropped out beneath him. His eyes snapped to Greyson, searching for confirmation or denial. His face revealed nothing, but his silence was answer enough.

“Is that true?” Callum asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice.

Greyson nodded once, a short, sharp motion. “Yes.”

Something warm and unexpected flared in Callum’s chest—pride, he realized. Pride in his friend who had found the courage to act, to resist. All this time, while Callum had been running his operations, Greyson had been fighting his own silent battle.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Callum asked, leaning forward. “I could have helped. We could’ve coordinated our efforts.”

“The same reason you didn’t tell me about your activities,” Greyson replied.

“The fewer people who knew, the safer the operation.”

Lira stood suddenly, her movements jerky as she took off her mask to reveal the emotion flooding her face. “Both of you,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “Both of you have been risking your lives, committing treason, and neither of you thought to trust me with the truth?” She turned to Greyson. “I’m your sister. I would have helped you. Protected you.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Greyson replied, a hint of gentleness entering his voice. “The Veyra watch you closely because of your position, your access to media and public perception. If you’d been caught helping me—”

“But you didn’t even trust me with the truth.” Lira’s voice sharpened. “Even if you didn’t let me help, you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

“It wasn’t about trust,” Greyson insisted, falling onto the couch next to where Shadera had sat again. “It was about safety. The fewer people involved, the fewer deaths when our father eventually discovers what I’ve been doing.”

Callum watched the siblings, feeling a familiar ache in his chest. How many times had he wanted to tell Lira the truth about his own activities? But he’d kept silent for the same reason Greyson had—to protect her, to keep her untainted by the violence and betrayal that had become his life.

“We should get back to our guest,” Callum said, attempting to defuse the tension. “Officer Webb might have more information we can use.”

Lira went completely still, her body freezing mid-motion. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice suddenly hollow.

Callum’s brows furrowed, sitting up straighter at the edge in her voice. “We should question the officer again—”

“His name,” Lira interrupted. “What’s his name?”

Something in her tone sent a chill down Callum’s spine. “Webb,” he repeated. “Veyra Officer Marcus Webb.”

Lira stayed silent for a long moment, her breathing becoming shallow and quick. When she spoke again, her voice was so calm, it felt violent. “Give me your gun, Cal.”

The request stopped him, and for a moment he simply stared at her. “What?”

“Your gun,” she repeated, extending her hand. “Give it to me.”

Callum didn’t hesitate at her request as he withdrew his gun from the holster on his shoulder and placed it in Lira’s outstretched hand. Her fingers closed

around the weapon with surprising familiarity.

The Lira he knew was not the woman standing in front of him.

“Lira,” Greyson began, but she cut him off with a raised hand.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion as she turned and walked toward the weapons room.

The three of them remained frozen in the living room, an unspoken agreement keeping them seated as Lira disappeared through the doorway.

Callum’s heart hammered against his ribs, a sense of foreboding washing over him.

Marcus’s voice rose in panic from the other room. “Wait—please—I know you—I didn’t want to—they made me—”

His pleas were cut short by a single gunshot. The sound cracked through the apartment like thunder, followed by a silence more absolute than any Callum had ever experienced.

Greyson rose from his seat, but before he could move toward the weapons room, Lira reappeared in the doorway. Blood spattered her face and the front of her dress, bright crimson against pale blue. Her hand, still holding the gun, hung limp at her side.

She crossed the room with measured steps and returned the weapon to Callum. He took it automatically, his mind struggling to reconcile what had just happened.

“Why?” he asked, unable to form a more coherent question.

Lira stared at him, her eyes hollow and distant. “He was one of them,” she said, her voice flat. “One of the ones my father gave me to when I was fourteen.”

The words took a moment to penetrate. When they did, he felt as if the air was sucked from his lungs. Greyson had gone completely rigid, the rage in his body palpable without a single movement.

“What are you talking about?” Greyson asked, his voice barely audible.

Lira turned to her brother, something breaking in her posture. “You never wondered why I was so obedient? Why I never questioned Father’s orders the way you or Brooker did?” She laughed, the sound empty of humor. “He needed the Veyra’s loyalty. Needed to ensure they would follow him without question, so he gave them something valuable. Me.”

Callum felt bile rise in his throat. The President had traded his own daughter’s body to secure the loyalty of his officers. Had allowed them to rape her, to use her for his own agenda.

“How many?” Callum managed, the words scraping his throat raw.

“Eleven,” Lira answered, her voice steady despite the horror of her revelation.

“Eleven officers over three months, before Mother found out and put a stop to it.” She looked at Greyson. “She threatened to kill herself if he continued. It was the only time I ever saw her stand up to him, and the President couldn’t have the stain of a weak wife on his reputation.”

Greyson took a step toward his sister, hands reaching for her, but she backed away.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t touch me. Not now.”

Shadera’s hand shot out at the despair in her voice. Lira’s fingers clung to her, wrapping around Shadera’s so tight Callum could see her knuckles blanching.

Slowly, Shadera stood, stepping in front of Lira, and began wiping the blood from her face with her free hand. When she finished, she grabbed Lira’s chin, forcing her to meet her eyes.

“Good for you.” Shadera’s voice was sharp, strong. “He deserved that bullet, and I promise to help you do whatever you need to put one in the other ten.”

Callum sat frozen, unable to process the magnitude of what he’d just learned.

All these years, he’d thought he was protecting Lira. All these years, he’d believed she needed sheltering from the ugly realities of the Heart’s power structure. But she had already seen it, knew better than he ever would just how cruel it could be. And all this time, she’d been carrying this burden alone, this unimaginable trauma inflicted by her own father.

Rage scorched a fiery path through Callum’s chest, a living thing with claws that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. He thought of the officer’s blood spilling across the weapons room floor, of the single gunshot that had ended his life, and felt only satisfaction that Lira had been the one to pull the trigger. It was a small justice, inadequate against the enormity of the crime, but it was something.

His eyes met Lira’s across the room, and in that moment, he made a silent vow to destroy the entire rotting edifice of the Heart’s government. To tear it

down, stone by stone, until nothing remained of Maximus Serel’s legacy but ashes.

Greyson stood in the center of his living room, blood singing through his veins like static in his ears as he watched Shadera speak to his sister. But he couldn’t hear her words, couldn’t hear anything over the fury consuming his mind. Lira’s words hung in the air like poison, seeping into every corner of the room,

changing everything.

His father had sold Lira. Sold her.

He was going to fucking burn for this.

The logical part of his brain took over, shoving emotion aside on instinct like it always had. A symptom of surviving a monster.

“We need to lay everything on the table,” he said, his voice rough and distant to his own ears. “No more secrets between us. No more protecting each other through silence.” He looked at each of them in turn—Callum, still seated with the gun in his hand. Shadera, watching him with those piercing green eyes. Lira, blood-spattered and hollow-eyed but standing tall. “If we have any chance against my father, we need complete honesty. Complete trust.”

The words felt strange on his tongue. Trust was a luxury in New Found Haven, a commodity rarer and more precious than anything in the Heart. For years, he had operated on the assumption that isolation was safety, that sharing his plans would only create vulnerabilities. Now, with the knowledge of what his father was planning—with the sound of his sister’s voice describing the horrors she’d lived with in secret—he realized that isolation had only ever served Maximus’s interests.

“That’s a nice idea,” Shadera started, breaking the silence that followed his declaration. She fell back onto the couch, arms crossed over her chest. “But maybe this apartment, where we just murdered eight Veyra officers for surveilling us, isn’t the smartest location.”

“She’s right,” Callum said, finally holstering the gun and dragging a hand down his face. “My place, then,” he suggested, rising from his chair. “Tonight. I have security measures that even your father’s tech can’t penetrate.”

Greyson nodded, his expression softening as he turned to Lira. “Are you okay to join us tonight? We could use your expertise with media and public perception.”

“I’ll be there,” she said simply. “I know things about his inner circle that might help us.” She paused, her voice dropping lower. “And I want to be part of ending him.”

The venom in her tone made Greyson’s hair stand on end. Lira—the voice of reason for the Serel family—had been replaced with someone harder, someone forged in pain and long-buried rage. He wondered how much of the sister he thought he knew had been a carefully curated facade, a survival mechanism in a household ruled by cruelty.

“What about her?” Callum asked, nodding toward Shadera. “Can she risk leaving the apartment again after your little murder spree?”

Greyson and Shadera answered at once.

“Oh, I am fucking coming.”

“I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

The memory of her near escape was still raw, still burning at the edges of his consciousness. “Where I go, she goes.”

Callum rose, straightening his bloodstained clothes as best he could. “I’ll have my men finish cleaning here,” he said, gesturing to the lingering evidence of violence. “The bodies will never be found.”

“Thank you,” Greyson said, the words inadequate for what he truly felt.

Gratitude, yes, but also a profound relief at no longer carrying his secrets alone.

As Callum moved toward the door, a sharp knock froze them all in place.

The sound echoed through the apartment, three precise raps against wood that carried the unmistakable authority of Veyra command. Greyson’s eyes met Callum’s across the room, a silent message passing between them—danger.

“Masks,” Greyson hissed, already reaching for his own. The others moved quickly, replacing their masks with practiced efficiency. Shadera’s fingers brushed against his as he handed hers to her, the brief contact sending an unwelcome spark through his nervous system.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Greyson drew a deep breath, forcing his features into the expressionless mask of the Executioner even before

the physical mask settled over his face. He nodded to the others, who positioned themselves strategically around the room—Callum by the kitchen island, hand resting casually near his concealed weapon. Lira beside the window, adopting a posture of aristocratic indifference. Shadera just behind him, a deadly shadow.

Greyson opened the door, body angled to block as much of the apartment from view as possible. Captain Mikel stood in the hallway, his Veyra uniform pristine, his mask snug over his face. Greyson could feel his stare assessing his bare torso, head tilting to peer over his shoulder at the others in the room.

“Executioner,” Mikel said, his tone formal but with an undercurrent of tension Greyson had never heard before. “I hope I’m not interrupting a social gathering.”

“What do you want, Mikel?” Greyson asked, not bothering to mask the edge in his voice. He shifted his stance, further blocking Mikel’s view of the apartment’s wreckage—of the hallway leading to the weapons room where Marcus’s body still cooled.

“Your father sent me,” he replied, his tone sharp.

“I’m listening,” Greyson said, maintaining his position in the doorway as anxious frustration flared in his chest.

Mikel paused, his head tilting again, moving slowly as if he were making mental notes. Shadera stepped up beside Greyson, fully blocking Mikel’s view, and for the first time, Greyson was so fucking thankful for that woman.

When Mikel spoke again, his voice had taken on an official cadence that suggested he was delivering rehearsed words.

“The President has orders to see you and the Daggermouth in his Haven Tower offices immediately,” Mikel announced, each word precise and flat.

“Alone.”

The demand percolated between them as Greyson forced his breathing to stay steady. Immediate summons to the President’s office always ended with a warning—a threat. Greyson felt Shadera move closer beside him, the heat of her body reaching out as if trying to calm him.

“What’s this regarding?” Greyson asked, buying time as his mind raced through possibilities, none of them good.

“He did not say,” Mikel replied. “Only that your presence is required without delay.” He paused, then added with careful emphasis, “Both of you.”

Greyson felt rather than saw the tension ripple through Shadera’s body. This summons wasn’t a request. It was a command backed by the full authority of the Heart. Refusing wasn’t an option—not without triggering immediate suspicion, immediate response. Whatever his father wanted, they would have to face it directly.

“We’ll need a moment to prepare,” Greyson said, his voice calm despite the alarm bells ringing in his mind.

Mikel nodded once, sharply, then stepped back, allowing Greyson to close the door. As soon as it clicked shut Greyson turned to face the others.

“This could be a trap,” Shadera said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking.

Greyson turned to her, struck by the realization that she was afraid. Not for herself—he doubted she had ever feared for her own life—but for what their discovery might mean for the rings, for the thousands whose lives hung on their ability to deceive his father.

“I know,” Greyson breathed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s just get it over with.” He glanced at Callum. “Tonight. Your place. If for some reason we are not there, make a plan. Move forward, with or without us.”