Chapter Eighteen Blue
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.
“What about Elliott?” I ask.
“Elliott will be protected. But these bastards killed Peter, and Peter saved my brother’s life.” Ash’s grip tightens on his
glass. “Some debts can only be paid in blood.”
The pact between us feels sealed without another word. Ash melts back into the crowd as silently as he appeared, leaving me
to turn my attention back to the woman still circling my gift.
When she finally looks up and catches my eye across the room, there’s something in her look that makes my cock hard. Not fear.
Not disgust. Something deeper, darker, utterly captivating.
Recognition.
She sees what I’ve done for her, and she understands exactly what it means.
I excuse myself from the conversation and make my way through the crowd, accepting compliments on the evening’s ambiance while
keeping my focus locked on Saylor. She hasn’t moved from her spot, hasn’t looked away from my gift. When I finally reach her
side, she doesn’t startle or step back. She just continues studying Sly’s lifeless face.
“Nice flower arrangement,” she says, like we’re discussing weekend hobby projects instead of the results of my latest orchestrated
murder. “The blue really brings out his eyes.”
“I had a feeling you’d appreciate the attention to detail.” I move closer, catching her fragrance over the moss and death.
“Color coordination is important in any good centerpiece.”
“A Crow decorated with flowers.” She tilts her head, considering. “There’s definitely some irony there. Very Martha Stewart
meets Edgar Allan Poe.”
“I do try to keep things thematically appropriate.”
When she turns to face me, her eyes hold something that makes my chest tighten. No horror, no demands for explanations. Just
genuine interest, like I’ve finally done something worth her attention.
“So is this your usual party trick?” she asks. “Corpse as conversation starter?”
“Only for special occasions.” I let my hand drift close to hers on the table’s edge. “Only when I really want to make an impression.”
“And what exactly are you trying to impress upon me?”
I lean in, voice dropping low enough that the nearest eavesdropper would have to strain. “That anyone stupid enough to threaten you gets promoted to table decoration. Consider it my version of a strongly worded letter.”
The way her breath halts tells me she understands the implication. This isn’t just about protection—it’s about possession.
About making it clear to everyone in this room that Saylor Mitchell belongs under my care, and anyone who threatens that arrangement
will become my next decorating project.
“How many more are there?” she asks, her gaze drifting back to the corpse. “Crows, I mean.”
“Eleven confirmed had a part in your father’s death.”
“Eleven.” She traces the edge of a flower petal with one finger, her touch gentle against the dead man’s chest. “That’s a
lot of future gifts.”
Ravaging satisfaction settles into my bones at her phrasing. She’s not asking me to stop. She’s calculating how many victims
I’ll be bringing her.
“As many as it takes,” I promise. “Every last one of them will pay for what they did to your father.”
Saylor is quiet for a long moment, still studying Sly’s peaceful expression. When she speaks again, her voice is so soft I
have to strain to hear it over the ambient music and conversation.
“I thought you were murder sober.”
“I am,” I say carefully. “Hans did the actual killing. I just . . . detained Sly. Made sure he couldn’t escape.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing with something between surprise and anger. “Hans killed him?”
“I couldn’t risk falling off the wagon. Not when you need me steady.” The admission tastes like failure on my tongue. “But
I made sure Sly understood exactly why he was dying.”
Her jaw tightens, and I can see her mind working through the implications.
“I’m jealous,” she says finally, her voice carrying an edge that sends heat racing through my veins. “It should have been
me. I don’t want Hans doing all the killing for my revenge.”
The raw honesty in her confession . . . She’s not horrified by the violence—she’s frustrated she wasn’t the one wielding it.
“The next one,” I promise, stepping closer until I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, “will come to you alive. Completely at your mercy. Whatever you want to do to them, however long you want to take—that kill will be yours.”
Her breath catches, pupils dilating as she processes what I’m offering her.
“When?” she asks, and there’s something hungry in her voice that makes my blood sing.
“Soon.”
The way she looks at me then—like I’ve just offered her the keys to salvation itself—makes something primal and possessive
roar to life in my chest. I’ve never been so fucking turned on by anyone in my life.
For a moment we just stare at each other across the space between what’s proper and what we both actually want. The weight
of what I’ve just offered her—and what she’s accepted—hangs between us until the sound of laughter from nearby guests reminds
me we’re not alone. We’re standing beside a corpse making promises about death while fifty people eat dinner around us.
“We should probably rejoin the party,” I say, although the last thing I want is to share her attention with anyone else.
“Probably,” she agrees, but neither of us moves.
Before either of us can say anything else, the band’s music changes, taking on a more prominent role as the room’s energy
shifts. A woman with dark hair pulled back approaches with a guitar in her hands, her smile warm and inviting.
“Saylor,” she says, offering the instrument. “We heard you’re a singer. Any chance we could convince you to join us for a
song?”
I watch Saylor’s energy shift from dark satisfaction to something lighter, more playful. She glances at me, then at the small
stage area where the band has set up their instruments—a double bass, violin, banjo, and mandolin arranged in a semi-circle
with space for a vocalist at the center.
“I don’t know if my style matches yours,” she says, but there’s interest.
“Try us,” the woman encourages. “We’re pretty adaptable.”
The crowd has started to notice the exchange, conversations dying down as people turn their attention toward us. I can see the expectation building, the way Grimlock’s residents are settling in for what they clearly hope will be entertainment.
“What do you say?” I ask Saylor, nodding toward the instruments. “Let them hear what Peter Mitchell’s daughter can do.”
Her chin lifts slightly at the mention of her father—pride, maybe, or determination. She takes the guitar from the woman with
steady hands.
“One song,” she agrees. “But don’t blame me if I scandalize your dinner party.”
“I’m counting on it,” I say, following her toward the stage area.
The band members nod respectfully as Saylor positions herself in their center, quickly conferring about key and tempo. I find
myself a spot near the edge of the crowd where I can watch her face, where I can catalog every look that crosses her features
as she prepares to sing.
When the opening notes ring out—a haunting bass line that seems to rise from the earth itself—the entire room goes silent.
The violin joins next, weaving a melody that sounds like mourning and celebration wrapped together. Then the banjo and mandolin
create a complex harmony that transforms the ballroom into something haunting and wild.
But it’s when Saylor opens her mouth that the world stops.
Her voice pours out rich and dark as aged whiskey, carrying notes that seem to bypass the ears and sink directly into bone
and bloodstream. She’s chosen something that sounds like a traditional folk ballad but with lyrics that speak of love and
loss and the beautiful violence that connects them. The melody rises and falls like breath, like heartbeat, like the rhythm
of skin against skin in the darkness.
She moves as she sings, her body swaying with the music in ways that make my blood run hot and my hands clench into fists.
The copper silk dances and flows around her curves, and the way the candlelight catches her face makes her look like some
goddess of war and desire. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted back, completely lost in the music she’s creating.
My throat goes dry watching her. Every movement, every note, every breath she takes seems designed to unravel what’s left of my self-control.
When she reaches the chorus—something about drinking from the cup of vengeance and finding it sweeter than wine—her voice
takes on an edge that makes every person in the room lean forward. There’s something primal in the sound, something that speaks
to the part of humanity that remembers when survival meant being willing to kill or be killed.
The song builds to a crescendo that seems to shake the walls themselves, Saylor’s voice soaring over the instruments with
power that makes my cock throb harder. God help me, it does.
She’s not just singing. She’s casting a spell, weaving magic that transforms the ballroom into something wild and raw and
impossible to resist.
When the final notes fade away, there’s silence for several heartbeats before applause erupts that sounds more like worship
than appreciation. But I’m not clapping. I’m staring at the woman on the stage who just proved that everything I suspected
about her darkness was true.
Saylor opens her eyes and finds mine across the crowd, and the smile that curves her lips is pure sin. She knows exactly what
she just did to me, exactly how completely she just destroyed any remaining boundaries between us.
She hands the guitar back to the woman and makes her way through the crowd toward me, accepting congratulations and compliments
with gracious smiles that don’t quite hide the satisfaction in her eyes.
When she reaches me, she rises up on her toes to speak directly into my ear, her breath warm against my skin.
“How was that for scandalizing your dinner party?”
“Perfect,” I manage. “Although I think you just made every person in this room want to ravage you.”
“Every person?” She pulls back to look at me directly, her dark eyes dancing with something wolfish. “Or are you talking about
someone specific who’s been undressing me with his eyes all night?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge, and we’ve definitely crossed some invisible line tonight.
And as she stands there waiting for my answer, her lips curved in that knowing smile while a dead man serves as our witness,
there’s no going back from this moment.
“Just one,” I admit quietly. “And it’s not just because of your singing.”
Her smile widens, and for the first time since Peter died, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to have something
worth protecting that isn’t just duty or obligation or guilt.
Something worth killing for. Something worth dying for.
Something worth burning the whole fucking world down for, if that’s what it takes to keep her looking at me like I’m salvation
and damnation wrapped in the same beautiful package.