Chapter 17 You Don’t Get To Say That #3
Lira’s mask tilted, the only indication of her raised eyebrow beneath it. “Charming introduction, Grey. I can see you’re putting real effort into making this arrangement work.”
“Oh, we’re getting along splendidly,” Shadera drawled, leaning against the counter. “He only threatens to kill me every other hour now.”
“An improvement then,” Lira noted dryly. “From every other minute.”
Something like amusement flickered across Shadera’s features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with her default expression of contempt. She took a long sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving Lira over the rim of the mug.
The silence stretched between them, weighted with concealed hostility. Greyson watched the two women assess each other, calculating weaknesses, measuring strengths—predators recognizing each other across a shared hunting ground.
“So,” Lira finally broke the silence, setting her bag down on the counter, “are we going to address the elephant in the room?”
“Which would be?” Greyson asked, pushing a hand through his hair.
“Greyson Serel,” Lira snapped, turning to face him fully, “you better not be sleeping with a Daggermouth.”
Shadera choked on her coffee, sputtering and coughing as the liquid went down the wrong way. Greyson’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
“Lira.” His voice emerged as a low warning.
“What?” She spread her hands in mock innocence. “It’s a reasonable concern given that you’re both half dressed at seven in the morning and she’s wearing your clothes.”
“We are not—” he started.
“I would rather fuck a rabid dog,” Shadera cut in, recovering from her coughing fit. “Actually, I might prefer the dog to your brother in general.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you,” Greyson snapped as his eyes narrowed on her.
It’s too fucking early for this.
Lira looked between them, the tilt of her head suggesting she was less than convinced as Greyson fought the urge to shove her back out the door. “So the shirt is . . .?”
“Is your whole fucking family this nosey?” Shadera asked before he could answer. “Chapman brought me these clothes. Your father didn’t exactly pack me a suitcase before imprisoning me here. Would you prefer I walk around naked?”
The reminder of how she’d arrived after the prison—beaten, half conscious, dressed in clothes stiff with blood—settled like a weight in Greyson’s stomach. It wasn’t guilt, exactly. More like the awareness of pain added to his family’s ledger already drowning in red.
Lira’s posture stiffened further, if that was possible. “I would prefer you not be here at all.”
“That makes two of us,” Shadera muttered into her coffee.
Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. This was not how he’d intended to start implementing his plan. He needed Shadera to believe he was sympathetic, needed to build trust, not watch his sister antagonize her.
But something about Lira’s accusation lingered uncomfortably in his mind. The very suggestion should have been laughable. Sleeping with a Daggermouth—with the woman who’d tried to put a bullet in his head—was beyond absurd. It was obscene.
Though the way she had sounded—
No.
That was a distraction he couldn’t afford.
He had a goal. Get close to her, gain her trust, extract information about Brooker’s murder.
That was all. The unwanted physical attraction—he winced at the word—the curiosity about her life before they’d collided—those were weaknesses he needed to master, not indulge.
But even as he lectured himself, his eyes drifted to her.
She leaned against his counter like she belonged there, defiant and deadly even in borrowed clothes.
There was something about her that refused to be diminished by circumstance.
A steel core that somehow made her more present, more real than anyone else in the room.
She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, challenge written in every line of her face. Greyson looked away first, an unexpected concession that unsettled him.
“I assume you didn’t come here just to hurl accusations,” he said to Lira, changing the subject.
“Yes.” Lira’s voice softened slightly, though he could tell she was filing away her suspicions for later examination. “I brought what you asked for and came to discuss other things.”
Greyson caught Shadera’s quick glance in his direction, the subtle shift in her posture from defensive to cautiously curious.
He hadn’t told her anything of what was to come, what horrors she was about to be submitted to.
One more thing to add to the growing list of conversations they needed to have but were too busy hurling barbs at each other to initiate.
If he were honest, he was dreading it—avoiding it. What she knew of the Heart only scratched the surface. What truly festered beneath the luxury was pure, untainted evil that made the public executions look like a kindness.
“What things?” Shadera asked, wariness evident in her tone.
Lira reached into her bag, the movement cautious as if Shadera would pounce on her if she made any sudden movements.
Greyson would not put it past her. Her hand reappeared with a box—matte black, unadorned except for a silver clasp.
She slid it across the table toward Shadera who made no move to touch it.
Greyson felt Shadera’s curiosity from across the room, saw the slight tilt of her head as she studied the box. His first olive branch, the first step toward his final goal.
“It’s for you,” he said to Shadera, nodding toward the box. “For today.”
He watched her hesitate, suspicion warring with curiosity in her eyes. The calculation there was familiar—he recognized it. Always assessing threats, weighing risks, looking for traps. What a miserable way to live, a necessary way to survive.
“It’s a present,” Greyson added, his voice softer than he intended.
For a moment, something like vulnerability flickered across her face at his statement.
The thought crossed his mind then, as he watched her stare at it, that this could quite possibly be the first gift she had ever received.
He didn’t need to live in the Boundary to know they did not have the luxury of buying unnecessary items.
Greyson’s stomach knotted, guilt prickling at the back of his neck as he watched her walls slam back into place. Her fingers slid across the counter’s surface as she reached for the box nonchalantly, as if she’d never hesitated at all.
“If whatever is in this box kills me, know I will take you both with me,” Shadera said, but there was no real venom in it.
Lira made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Please. That would be too easy.”
For the first time since they’d met, Greyson saw the ghost of a genuine smile touch Shadera’s lips. It transformed her face, softened the sharp edges of her beauty into something that made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
No. Absolutely not.
Greyson shoved the feeling aside as she opened the box. Her smile faded into something more complex as she stared at its contents. He watched her carefully, looking for any crack in her composure, any sign that would help him understand her.
Help you manipulate her, he corrected himself. That was the point, the only point. Not curiosity, not fascination. Just a means to an end.
Shadera finally reached inside, her fingers closing around the contents. When she lifted it out, a small, involuntary sound escaped her—not quite a gasp, something softer. In her hands lay a mask unlike any he’d ever seen in the Heart.
The mask was crafted of polished obsidian, so black it seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it.
But where traditional Heart masks were elegant, subtle in their symbolism, this was a blatant provocation.
It was shaped like a skull, the eye holes larger than standard, the angles sharp.
Silver filigree traced the bone structure, adding a hint of delicacy, catching the light when it moved.
No Heart elite would ever wear something so deliberately macabre, so openly defiant of tradition.
It was perfect.
Greyson stepped closer, peering over Shadera’s shoulder at the creation.
A small smile formed on his lips as he imagined his father’s face when Shadera appeared at dinner wearing this.
The masks of the Heart were meant to erase individuality, to create a uniform society where rank was visible but personality remained subdued.
This mask did the opposite—it screamed identity, defiance, rebellion. It declared its wearer dangerous.
His father would hate it. Which made Greyson love it all the more.
The strategic part of his mind calculated the advantages.
This was more than aesthetic rebellion—it was psychological warfare.
When Shadera appeared at his side wearing a skull mask, the message would be unmistakable.
A Daggermouth stood with the Serels, not against them.
It would create the exact narrative his father wanted while subverting it through symbolism he would despise—that Shadera still belonged to the Boundary.
Still Shadera said nothing as she turned the mask in her hands.
“It’s what Greyson requested,” Lira started. “He asked me to make something that you would actually want to wear.”
Shadera’s eyes flicked to Greyson with momentary surprise before pulling them back to the mask.
“I designed it myself,” Lira continued. “I thought the skull motif appropriate given your associations. The Daggermouths use a skull symbol, do they not?”
“They do,” Shadera answered quietly.
“That’s what I thought, and it will match the mark—”
“It’s perfect,” Greyson interrupted before Lira could finish, shooting her a stern look.
Shadera still had not seen his mark, another thing she didn’t know about him. She would find out eventually that her mask also resembled his own symbol, but if he was going to get her to wear it, now was not the time for that revelation.