I laugh. Not a soft laugh. Not a polite one. It rips out of me, jagged and unkind, filling the space between us with something sharp enough to dig under his skin. “What do I want? Let’s see… to let you know that I’m the one who ruined your prize. The one you couldn’t collect tonight. You’ll never see her. Not now. Not ever.”
The words land like fire, and I see it—the exact second the anger ignites in him. His face flushes, rage crawling up his neck until his skin burns crimson. His eyes sharpen, his jaw clenches, and I know if he weren’t tied to that chair, he’d already be lunging at me.
Before he can spit whatever filth he’s choking on, I cut him off. My hand flicks, wrist loose but precise, and one of my smaller blades sails through the air. It spins once before burying itself in his shoulder with a meaty thud. The impact forces a grunt out of him, his body jerking hard against the ropes, but he doesn’t scream. Not yet.
His jaw clamps shut, stubborn, trying to smother the pain under bravado. He thinks silence is strength. He thinks I’ll back down if he doesn’t give me what I want.
Oh, but he will.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
The blade jutting from his shoulder quivers with every shallow breath he takes, blood soaking his chest in a dark, spreading bloom. I step closer, leaning into his space, close enough to smell the tang of iron rolling off him in waves. His jaw is set, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin, furious line. He’s holding on tight to whatever pathetic scrap of control he thinks he has left.
“You know,” I say lightly, circling him as if we’re just two old friends catching up, “most men in your position would already be singing. Begging. Promising me their firstborn and the password to their offshore accounts.” My knife twirls lazily in my hand, the reflection of the moonlight dancing across the blade like firelight. “But not you, Trent. You’re too proud. Or maybe too stupid. Which one is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just glares.
I grin wide, the kind of grin that makes men squirm because they know it means I’m about to do something they’ll regret. “That’s fine. I like a challenge.”
The knife dips, then snaps forward, biting into his thigh. His body jerks, a guttural sound tearing from his throat—but still, no words. No answers. I haven’t asked a single question. I rarely need to. Men like this unravel on their own, spilling secrets and gambling that one of them might buy mercy. I like to see what they’re willing to give before we really begin.
I tsk under my breath and lean down, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper, “You should really learn to share. Sharing’s caring, didn’t they teach you that in kindergarten?” I twist the blade, and he lets out a hiss through clenched teeth, his hands straining uselessly against the ropes binding him to the chair. “See?” I croon, pulling the blade out and admiring the way the blood runs down his leg in rivulets. “That wasn’t so bad. A little pressure, a little encouragement, and suddenly you’re all sorts of expressive.”
Still nothing. No pleas. No names.
I laugh, sharp and sudden, and drag the tip of the knife along the inside of his arm, slow enough for him to feel every bite of the steel without it cutting deep. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t need all the answers tonight. I’ve got time. But you?” My hand flicks, opening a shallow line across his skin, crimson bubbling to thesurface. “You don’t. Tick, tock, Trent. The clock’s running, and you’re the only one who can stop it. Now, tell me about your boss.”
His glare stays fixed on me, unyielding. My smile sharpens, my voice slipping into singsong. “Fine. Don’t talk. I’ll make art instead. You’re canvas tonight, sweetheart, and I’ve always been a little abstract.”
Another jab, this one on his side, just shy of the ribs. He jerks again, choking back another sound, and I can’t help the sarcastic snort that escapes me. “God, you’re dramatic. It’s like you’ve never been stabbed before.”
I straighten, twirling the blade once more before pointing it at his chest. “So, last chance, Trent. You tell me what I want to know, or we keep playing until you’re more holes than human. Personally? I’m good either way.”
He spits blood onto the floor, the crimson spray stark against the wood, and then has the audacity to smirk at me through the pain. That’s all the answer I need.
My grin stretches, wicked and sharp, as I whisper to myself, “Hotdog octopus it is.”
A booming laugh crashes through the room, loud enough to rattle the walls, but my nerves don’t so much as twitch. I felt him long before I saw him—soul recognizing soul, that pull that never weakens no matter how far I run. When I glance over, there he is. Ronan. One of the great loves of my life, standing in the shadows like he owns them. Like heisthem. He looks like the King of demons, cut from shadow and fire, and yet he moves with that easy swagger, shoulders loose, mouth tilted in a grin that’s pure sin.
He doesn’t pause to acknowledge the man tied up in the chair, bleeding from every slice I’ve gifted him. Doesn’t so much as blink at the mess I’ve made. No, his focus is all on me, burning and unshakable. My breath hitches when he stops right in front of me, crowding my space until there’s no room for air.
“Pix,” he rumbles, voice so deep it vibrates straight through my bones. The sound alone lights me up, heat coiling low in my stomach, the most inappropriate reaction given our circumstances—but the smirk curling his lips tells me he knows exactly where my mind went. “You miss me, baby?” he asks, tone dripping with dark amusement as I let him slide seamlessly into control. His hand threads into my hair, firm but tender, tilting my head back until I’m exactly where he wants me. The brush of his mouth on mine is soft, reverent, a contradiction to the predator standing before me. When he pulls away, it’s only to press a kiss against the tip of my nose, a gesture so achingly gentle it shatters something in me. For a moment, I feel like I’m the most precious thing in his world.
Then, just as quickly, the tenderness vanishes. His gaze snaps to Trent, and the fire in his eyes hardens to steel. The smirk is gone, replaced by a glare so lethal it could flay a man alive before the blade even touches skin.
Ronan’s voice cuts through the charged air like velvet wrapped in barbed wire, smooth and deliberate but laced with danger sharp enough to draw blood. “Well, hello, Trent. How’s your night?” His tone is almost casual, conversational even, but I can hear the promise beneath it, the kind of promise that comes wrapped in violence. He tilts his head slightly, a predator assessing prey, eyesglinting with something feral in the dim light. His entire body radiates that slow, easy menace—loose shoulders, relaxed stance—but it’s a mask, because beneath it he’s coiled tight, ready to strike, ready to tear Trent apart piece by piece. He looks like he’s already deciding where he’ll sink his teeth first.
Then I see it—the flicker. That unmistakable spark of terror in Trent’s eyes. Not for me. For him. It’s subtle at first—a tightening around the mouth, a twitch of the hands against the ropes—but it grows with every second Ronan stands there. His breathing changes—shallow, frantic—a man caught in the shadow of something bigger than himself.
White-hot fury sears through my veins. Why him? Why is Ronan the one who gets the fear when I’ve been here all night carving this bastard open? Why does his presence strip Trent bare when I’ve already spilled his blood across the floor? My chest heaves, my heart’s pounding so hard it rattles my ribs, the insult cutting deeper than any blade.
My lips curl into a snarl before I can stop it. “What, you’re more scared of him than me?” The words hiss out of me, sharp enough to slice the air between us. I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t need one. My knife drives into his shoulder with a vicious thrust, steel sinking deep until a fresh gush of blood spills down his chest. His hiss of pain bursts out, teeth clenched, eyes squeezing shut, and for a fleeting second, it’s a balm. Music, pure and discordant, the sound of his body remembering it belongs to me.
But the relief doesn’t last. The anger twisting inside me only coils tighter, hotter, like a snake refusing to loosen its grip. His painisn’t enough. His fear isn’t enough. Not if he’s saving the worst of it for Ronan. Not if he’s looking at me like I’m anything less than the storm that came to end him.
Ronan laughs, the sound low and dark, curling through the room like smoke. It’s not a laugh that lightens the air—it thickens it, makes it heavier, weighted with amusement that’s laced in cruelty. He doesn’t even look at me; his gaze is pinned on Trent, sharp and unyielding, a predator’s focus that never wavers. “Don’t kill him too quickly, baby,” he drawls, the words smooth, almost lazy, like we’ve got all the time in the world to peel this bastard apart piece by piece. His tone makes it sound like a request, but the edge underneath tells me it’s not. It’s a command wrapped in silk. Then he leans forward, and I know something is coming. His voice shifts, cutting precise, deliberate, every syllable a blade. “Because this little fuck right here? He’s the one who crept into my room and put a bullet in my chest.”
The words hit me like a blast of ice water. My entire body seizes, breath stalling in my lungs, a shiver rippling through me even though the room is warm with blood and rage. My knife-hand falters mid-motion, the blade slick in my grip as though it, too, is stunned by what I just heard.