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)
A man sits tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s maybe thirty, with the lean build of someone who knows how to run fast and fight dirty. When he sees me, his eyes widen with the particular alarm of someone realizing his day just got significantly worse.
“Julian Crow,” Blue says conversationally. “One half of the Shadow Twins assassination team. He was kind enough to volunteer for today’s demonstration.”
“Julian Crow,” I repeat, frowning. “Why do they all have the same last name? Is it like . . . a family thing?”
Blue’s expression darkens slightly. “The Crow isn’t just what they do. It’s who they are. When you join them, you take the name. Julian Crow, Victor Crow, Leroy Crow. You become part of the murder of crows, literally.”
“Murder of crows,” I say, the phrase clicking. “That’s poetic.”
“Brutus thought so.” Blue’s voice carries an edge. “It’s also practical. Makes them harder to track when everyone shares the same last name.”
Julian makes muffled sounds of protest behind his gag.
“I know, I know,” Blue continues. “You didn’t technically volunteer this demonstration. But you did hold the knife that slit Peter’s throat while your partner carved his initials into his chest. You laughed while he bled out, Julian. You filmed it for Brutus. That makes this educational opportunity well-deserved.”
My stomach does a little flip at the casual mention of Dad’s name, but it’s not nausea. It’s something darker, hungrier. This is one of them. One of the men from my list—the tall one with the snake tattoo curling up his neck who wouldn’t stop laughing while they killed my father.
Blue moves to a table covered with black cloth. When he pulls it away, I see an array of knives that could have come from a serial killer’s wet dream. Each blade is polished to mirror brightness, arranged with the same care Wren uses for formal dinner settings.
“I thought you might prefer something easier to handle than my axe,” Blue explains, running his finger along the edge of a particularly wicked-looking dagger. “These are designed for finesse rather than brute force.”
I stare at the display, my mouth suddenly dry. “This is really happening.”
“Only if you want it to.” His voice is gentler than usual.
Blue reaches out to steady me, his hand brushing my shoulder, and I flinch away from the contact before I can stop myself. The involuntary movement gives away everything—the nerves I’m trying to hide, the fear I don’t want to admit to.
“Maybe we should start with something else,” Blue continues, and there’s something protective in his tone that makes me bristle. “Some target practice. Work up to—”
The offer should be comforting, but instead it makes something stubborn flare in my chest. I asked for this. Demanded it. Last night I told Blue I wanted to kill my father’s murderers myself, and I meant every word.
“Remove his gag,” I say, surprised by how calm I sound.
Blue hesitates, studying my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“Remove his gag,” I repeat, lifting my chin.
Blue raises an eyebrow but complies. The moment the tape comes off, Julian starts talking.
“What the fuck is this? Who is this bitch in the vintage pin-up costume?”
“Language,” Blue says mildly. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”
“A lady?” Julian looks me up and down with obvious confusion. “She looks like she should be serving pie at a diner, not standing in a murder basement.”
“Saylor, meet Julian Crow,” Blue continues. “Julian, meet Saylor Mitchell. Peter’s daughter.”
Julian’s face goes white. “Oh. Shit.”
He knows he’s going to die.
“There’s that mouth again.” I pick up one of the smaller knives, testing its weight in my palm. “Tell me something, Julian. How long did it take my father to die? Did you time it while you cut him?”
Julian’s cocky demeanor falters for just a moment. “Look, your dad fought hard. Gave us more trouble than most. Gutsy bastard, I’ll give him that.”
“That’s not what I asked.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I asked if you timed it.”
“Three minutes,” Julian says, his eyes growing cold. “Three minutes from the first cut to when he stopped making noise. Would have been faster, but Brutus wanted to make it last.”
The casual cruelty of it—the way he talks about my father’s death like it was a game—makes rage bloom hot and bright in my chest.
“Look, lady, I don’t know what kind of revenge fantasy you’re playing out here, but maybe let the professional handle this?” Julian jerks his head toward Blue. “At least he knows what he’s doing.” His acceptance of his impending death is surprising, but I guess in his line of business this is normal.
“The whole point is that I do it myself.” I raise the knife, studying how the basement lights catch on the blade. “You killed my father. I kill you. Simple math.”