Chapter 28 Marcus
MARCUS
It’s been weeks since Theo’s funeral. Weeks of phone calls, reports, and closed loops.
Natural causes.
That’s what it says. Marta was cleared, and so was Weiss. No signs of negligence. The oxygen interruption was temporary, a routine care mishap caused by tubing compressed between the bed frame and the mattress during repositioning.
It was accidental.
That word has learned to mock me.
This morning, the Hudson River Park unfolds the way it always does, with trimmed grass, joggers pretending not to stare, and the Hudson sliding past. I walk it, my hands buried in my pockets, my shoulders drawn tight.
I stop near the water and stare at nothing in particular.
This is what failure feels like.
Marcus Lockwood. Surgeon. Benefactor. The kind of man whose name opens doors before he reaches them. Now, he’s clueless.
And worse, rejected.
By Iris Vaughn, of all people.
The woman I’d started thinking of as my place.
I don’t know whether that’s a consolation or an insult, but it’s true. The only thing that ever managed to love me was a dog.
I keep walking. Every so often, my gaze searches, half-expecting a flash of fur. This is supposed to be his domain, as Iris called it.
Blanket comforted me that night outside the gallery in a way no one ever had. But the trouble is, he isn’t just a dog. He’s tethered to Iris whether I like it or not, a living reminder I can’t shake.
Good God. What am I supposed to do?
Something bumps my leg.
“Well, if it isn’t my lucky break,” I mutter.
He drops the cushion, or what’s left of it, at my feet and sits, pleased with himself.
I crouch. “You’ve got to get rid of this thing, buddy. I’ll get you a new one.”
I reach for it, but he snatches it up instantly and backs away, his eyes bright, daring me.
“All right,” I say, straightening up. “No substitute.”
That’s when I see the blood. It’s not much. Just a smear along his hind leg, dark against the fur. Fresh.
“Oh, buddy,” I mutter, lowering again, careful this time.
He doesn’t pull away. He just tucks in on himself, his ears flicking.
I pull my phone out and call Liam.
“Hudson River Park,” I say when he answers. “Bring your kit. Someone’s got a laceration. It looks superficial, but it’ll need cleaning. Maybe antibiotics.”
“You’re doing mobile dog rescue now?”
“Just come.”
He exhales. “I’m doing this because it’s you, and because I’m fairly sure I know exactly who you’ve found. On my way.”
The wait is short. When Liam arrives, Blanket bounds toward him, cushion abandoned, his tail working overtime.
“Well, Cushion Slayer,” Liam says, dropping to one knee. “You remember me, don’t you?”
Blanket flops onto his back.
Liam scratches his belly until the kit comes out. The moment the syringe appears, Blanket’s instincts kick in, and he scrambles upright.
But Liam’s already got him, firm yet gentle at the same time. “Nope. No fugitiving,” he says. “You need this.”
Blanket yelps, more insulted than hurt, then freezes, his eyes wide.
I watch too closely at the way Liam steadies the leg and the way Blanket trusts him.
When it’s done, Blanket bolts with his prized possession. No backward glance. No thank-you. Just gone, like he was never ours to keep.
Liam watches him disappear, then pulls an antiseptic wipe from his pocket and cleans his hands. “Ungrateful little bastard.”
“He’s consistent,” I say. “I respect that.”
Liam flicks the used wipe into a nearby bin. “So, I hear someone bought a certain piece from a certain artist. Six hundred grand.”
“I have excellent taste.”
That part’s not a joke. I genuinely love the pieces from the Between Us collection.
Keller told me that the one I bought was the first one she made for it.
The gold and red carry an intimacy that’s taut and haunting.
Or maybe it’s my bias, learned from her.
Either way, it’s the kind of work Gustav Klimt might have envied if he’d been born later and learned restraint.
And if I’m honest, it pulls me straight back to that night in the barn studio.
Liam glances at me sideways. “You didn’t have anything to do with nudging Evan Yani into taking her on, did you?”
“Hell no,” I say. “I reward people, but I wasn’t put on this earth to alter a force of nature.”
He scoffs. “That’s rich. Since when do you sound like a philosophy major?”
“You just never appreciated my depth.”
He jerks his head toward the path. “Come on. What are you even doing out here anyway?”
I don’t answer right away.
Then, finally, I mutter, “He murdered Theo.”
Liam’s expression changes as he looks down at the grass. “You need to set that aside,” he says. “We don’t have anything. You know that.”
“Not you,” I say. “Please.”
“I know how it sounds,” he replies. “But it’s for your own good. You’re not thinking straight.”
I laugh dryly. “Since when does thinking straight solve anything?”
He studies me. “Whoever that man is, you think he wants her.”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
“And you think another game will flush him out.”
“Yes.”
“No,” Liam counters.
“He’ll come,” I insist. “She’s the bridge. Between him and me.”
Liam straightens. “You want her as bait?”
“I’ll keep her safe.”
“That’s what they always say.”
“I will,” I snap. “He’ll never have her. Never.”
“Marcus,” he says, firmer now. “You were lucky. Iris was smart enough to fight back. Next time, that fake wolf will come prepared.”
“I’m doing this for Theo.”
Silence.
Then, he says in a softer voice, “Theo wouldn’t want this.”
“I didn’t do enough for him,” I say. “I didn’t even try.”
Not because I failed to show up. I was there. I just accepted the temperature of the room and never thought to change it. Never pushed. Never asked for more than what he offered. I learned early on what kind of man he was, and I let the space between us stand because it always had.
I told myself that was respect.
“You’re in love with her,” Liam says suddenly.
My mind blanks, like a switch thrown without warning. “No,” I deny.
He waits.
“It’s just a game,” I tell him.
“Right.”
“It’s just a game,” I repeat.
“Iris doesn’t deserve this,” Liam says. “Game or not. Love or not. Don’t do this, Marcus.”
I keep my eyes on the river, the slow pull of it, and the path where Blanket disappeared. Everything keeps moving, indifferent to what I’m trying to hold together.
“She’s not helpless,” I say. “She’s sharper than either of us gave her credit for. Even Mongoose never saw it coming when that fake wolf went for him.”
I look away, guilt settling in. Injury is part of the Game, but not from an outsider. Mongoose was waiting for Iris to arrive when the intruder attacked him from behind. He was lucky, only suffering a mild concussion. He’s fine now.
“That’s not the point,” Liam counters. “You’re not talking about her strength. You’re talking about your need.”
I don’t answer. I picture her instead, too vividly. I picture the wrong wolf’s hand reaching for her again, and the moment when instinct might not be enough. When luck runs out.
“I can control it,” I say. “I’ve controlled everything else.”
Liam steps closer. “That’s what scares me.”
Silence stretches. The city carries on at our backs, and the river keeps going.
I exhale slowly, letting go of something lodged deep. “All right,” I say at last, my voice stripped bare. “No more games with her.”
Liam doesn’t celebrate. He just breathes out. “Good. And I mean it, Marcus. This ends here.”
I nod. But it feels less like agreement and more like amputation.
“Now go home,” he adds. “Binge Below Deck or something.”
A rough sound escapes me. Not quite a laugh.
“You look worse than a stray,” he comments.
Sleep won’t come, so morning finds me awake with a glass in my hand.
Whatever I choose from here on will be wrong. I know it with a certainty that feels almost comforting.
I’m letting go of Iris—no, Midnight. Iris was never mine to release. She existed outside the rules, outside the mask. What I held was Midnight. The woman who made me feel human without stripping me bare. Strong without turning me cruel. Vulnerable without leaving me exposed.
And on the other side, there’s Theo. A man who took me in, now reduced to a name cut into stone. A polite instruction to rest in peace. He deserves more than that. More than a death ruled natural because nothing obvious contradicted it.
The man who killed him is still breathing.
And he’s tied to the Velvet Game.
That much is undeniable now. The fire, the passage, the twin wearing my face. Whoever he is, he understands the Game’s architecture.
Wolf and Midnight were never designed to last. I know that. Every game ends, and every illusion burns out eventually. But I’ll be damned if it ends like this.
Not with that bastard winning.
Not with Midnight and Wolf erased like two disposable characters a studio cuts in post-production because the audience won’t miss them.
If the Game is where he moves, then the Game is where I’ll meet him.
The glass warms in my hand. My decision is clear.
I dial Sabine.
“This Friday,” I say when she answers. “Send the invite. I still want Midnight.”
“Understood,” she says.
The call ends.
And it doesn’t take long before my phone rings.
Liam.
“Are you out of your mind?” he barks the second I answer, no patience left to spare.
I glance at the glass cabinet across the room. The guns inside have been nothing more than décor since the last time Theo and I shot bottles.
“I will keep her safe,” I say firmly.