Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
But there’s something else here. Something that makes my chest tighten with an emotion I can’t quite name. He did this without asking me. Without warning me. Is this how he plans to handle my education—surprising me with tests I didn’t know I was taking?
The thought hits me so suddenly I actually take a step backward. I’m not just being shown a dead body—I’m being evaluated. My reaction right now is determining something about how Blue sees me, what he thinks I’m ready for.
When did murder become a pop quiz?
But beneath the unease is something darker. Something that whispers that this is exactly what I wanted to see. That I’ve been fantasizing about these men dead for years, and now one of them actually is. The only thing missing is that I didn’t get to do it myself.
Is that the point? Is he showing me what I’m missing out on by letting others handle my revenge?
I look across the room at Blue, who’s watching me with those dark eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul. He’s not just protecting me or taking over my revenge—he’s testing whether I’m ready to claim it myself.
In front of the entire town. With a corpse as his teaching aid.
And God help me, I think I’m passing.
Chapter Eighteen
Blue
Death has its own magnetism, and Saylor is caught in its pull.
She circles Samuel “Sly” Crow’s corpse with the deliberate hunger of a predator examining prey, her copper silk dress whispering against the moss-covered floor as she moves. Each step brings her closer to the truth I’ve laid bare for her—not just Sly’s eviscerated chest blooming with midnight flowers, but the careful choreography of violence I’ve orchestrated in her honor. The violence Hans executed while I held myself back, counting breaths and fighting every instinct that screamed at me to be the one wielding the blade.
My conversation with Hans dies mid-sentence as I watch her lean forward, close enough that the candlelight catches the silver stars Wren painted along her lash line. She’s not recoiling from death’s embrace. She’s welcoming it, breathing it in like expensive perfume.
This is the moment that separates the survivors from the casualties in my world. The instant when civilized masks slip away and reveal the teeth underneath. I’ve seen grown men weep at far less provocative displays, watched seasoned criminals lose their nerve when confronted with my particular brand of artistic expression. Or rather, Hans’s execution of my particular brand of artistic expression.
Saylor does something that stops my heart.
She smiles.
It’s not the smile of someone trying to appear brave or sophisticated. It’s the slow, satisfied curve of lips that have just tasted something exquisite. She reaches out—actually reaches out—and her fingertips hover just above the crown of blue flowers Hans wove through Sly’s silver hair. Close enough to feel the residual heat bleeding from his cooling flesh, close enough to disturb the careful arrangement if she wanted to claim a souvenir.
The gesture is intimate. Proprietorial. Like she’s already thinking of him as hers rather than mine.
Conversations murmur somewhere behind me, but the voices sound like they’re coming from underwater. The entire ballroom might as well be empty except for the woman tracing the architecture of death with her eyes, memorizing each detail of Hans’s handiwork with the focus of someone committing a lover’s body to memory.
A familiar voice cuts through my concentration. “That was quite the statement.”
I turn to find Ash Cupp standing beside me, his calculating gaze fixed on the flower-adorned corpse. He’s holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey, and there’s something different in his posture—less protective baker, more dangerous strategist.
“Ash.” I nod. “Enjoying the party?”
“Elliott’s been charming the ladies with stories about his butterfly collection.” Ash takes a sip of his whiskey, then meets my gaze directly. “But we both know tonight wasn’t about hospitality. You just painted a target on your back in front of the entire town.”
The words settle between us like stones dropping into still water. Ash understands exactly what I’ve done here—not just arranged for Sly Crow to be killed, but made it public, taunting, impossible to ignore.
“They’re going to be furious,” he continues, his tone dropping to something that reminds me of the man he used to be. “Pissed-off Crows can either be extremely lethal or they can make stupid mistakes. Depends on how much you’ve gotten under their skin.”
“I’m banking on stupid mistakes.”
Ash’s smile is as lethal as any blade I’ve ever wielded. “Good. Because if you need another general in your army, I volunteer.” He raises his glass slightly, a toast to violence yet to come. “The Collector may be retired, but he remembers every trick they taught him. And he has some scores of his own to settle.”
The offer solidifies between us like a pact written in blood. Ash isn’t just offering to help. He’s declaring his loyalty, choosing sides in a war that’s about to consume Grimlock.