Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Jameson Fucking Vine
Shadera’s world narrowed at the sound of those four words.
A voice. His voice. The liquor in her veins turned electric as she stared at the reflective faceplate, her own distorted reflection looking back at her.
Time stretched and compressed around her as her mind struggled to process what her heart already knew.
Jameson was here. In the Heart. Inside the beast’s den.
Something cracked inside Shadera, a dam breaking to release a flood of emotion so powerful she could barely breathe through it as Jameson pulled the helmet from his head.
She launched herself at him without conscious thought, arms wrapping around his neck as her body collided with his.
He caught her, arms encircling her waist and lifting her off her feet in a crushing embrace against the unfamiliar hardness of the Veyra armor. She didn’t care. It was him underneath.
It was Jameson.
“You’re here,” she gasped against his neck, inhaling his scent. “You fucking idiot, you’re actually here.”
His arms tightened around her, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head as a laugh slipped from his lungs. “Did you think I wouldn’t come for you?”
Shadera pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands framing his jaw as if to confirm he was real, solid, present. That this wasn’t some alcohol induced hallucination. His eyes searched hers through her mask, drinking her in with equal relief.
“How?” she asked, still not quite believing. “How are you here in this uniform? The checkpoints, the security—”
“Long story,” Jameson said, his thumbs tracing circles on her lower back, as if he couldn’t stop touching her now that she was in his arms. “I’ll tell you once we’re out of here. We don’t have much time.”
Reality crashed back with his words. They were still in the Heart, still surrounded by enemies, still in imminent danger. The joy of seeing him was immediately tempered by fear for his safety.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice tightening. “Did they—did he—”
“I’m fine,” she cut him off, though the word tasted like a lie. “You need to leave,” she said, letting her boots fall to the floor and pulling back further. Her hands remained on his shoulders, unwilling to break contact completely. “If they catch you, if Greyson sees you—”
“Greyson?” Jameson’s hands stilled on her waist, his fingers tightening. “You’re on a first name basis with the Executioner now?”
There was something in his tone she couldn’t quite place—jealousy, maybe, or betrayal. She didn’t have time to analyze it.
She ignored the question, stepping back from his touch. The loss of contact felt like stepping from the warmth of home into a winter morning. “You need to get out. They will catch you if—”
“They won’t.” His voice held absolute certainty. “We have a way out. A good one. But we need to move now.”
Shadera’s mind raced, cataloging possibilities, risks, variables. “There are at least thirty security personnel in the club. More outside. Veyra patrols in the streets. Checkpoints at every sector.”
“We have a plan,” Jameson insisted, reaching into a compartment in his bag to withdraw a small bundle of black fabric and a helmet. “But you need to change. Now.”
He unfolded it, revealing another Veyra uniform, sized for her. Shadera stared at it, understanding dawning with cold clarity. They were going to walk out as Veyra officers, hiding in plain sight, using the Heart’s own authority against it.
It was fucking brilliant.
“Jaeger’s here?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Only Jaeger would attempt something this audacious.
Jameson nodded. “And six others. But our window is closing. We need to go.”
Shadera glanced toward the door, thinking of Greyson somewhere upstairs, unaware that his prisoner was about to slip through his fingers. Something complicated twisted in her chest—not quite guilt, not quite relief, but some emotion that defied simple categorization.
“Shade.” Jameson’s voice softened, his hands coming up to frame her face, fingers gentle against the edges of her mask. “Come home. Please come home.”
The words undid her. Whatever confusion she felt about Greyson, whatever complex emotions had developed during her time with him, they paled beside the pleading she saw looking into Jameson’s eyes.
“Get me out of here,” she said, reaching for the uniform.
The smile that spread across Jameson’s face was one of relief, of a man looking into the eyes of a woman he feared he would never see again.
His smile disappeared.
The door behind them hissed open, and her eyes locked on to that bright blue gaze and widened. Shadera froze, her body turning to stone.
Greyson stood framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space. The mask stared back at her, black and expressionless. But she knew the face beneath it now, knew the look in those eyes that watched her through those hollow sockets.
He stepped into the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss, sealing them in, the outside world once again muffled and distant. Greyson leaned against the frame casually, but Shadera could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his body coiled like a spring about to release.
Jameson’s hand slid to Shadera’s waist, pulling her behind him as he slowly turned to face Greyson, his hand dropping to the weapon at his side.
The Veyra uniform he wore made the standoff even more surreal—two men in the garb of the Heart’s enforcers, facing each other across an invisible line with Shadera caught in the middle.
The room began to shrink around her, the walls creeping inward with each breath.
The air felt thicker, heavier in her lungs as her heart rate doubled.
The single holo-lamp cast their shadows against the wall—three dark silhouettes stretched and distorted, overlapping and separating as they moved.
Predators circling each other in a cage too small to contain them all.
Shadera’s eyes darted around, cataloging the space with growing desperation.
Soundproofed walls. No windows. One door.
No escape route. The alcohol in her system, which had felt warm and comforting just minutes before, now churned in her stomach, making her lightheaded.
The room was designed for privacy, for secret conversations and clandestine interactions. Now it felt like a tomb.
A deep, menacing chuckle left Greyson’s lungs and the sound crawled over Shadera’s skin like ice, raising goosebumps in its wake.
She’d heard that laugh before—in his apartment after she’d tried to kill him, last night when his father had shot him.
It was the sound he made when he was at his most unpredictable, when the careful control he maintained began to slip.
Greyson’s head tilted, the movement predatory, calculating, as his eyes traveled from Jameson’s face down to where his hands still gripped Shadera’s arms.
“Jameson fucking Vine. I believe your hands are on my wife.”
The claim set fire to her nerves.
She watched Greyson’s jaw tighten at the edge of his mask, saw his hands flex at his sides, fingers curling into half fists before stretching out again just inches above his weapon.
The gesture was small but loaded with violence.
She knew him well enough now to recognize the restraint it cost him, the control he was exerting not to draw.
“Greyson—” she started, trying to keep him calm.
“Don’t.” The single word cut through the air like a blade. “Don’t say another word.”
The command ignited her hate.
“I’m not your fucking wife,” she snapped back, stepping out from behind Jameson’s protective stance. “I will never be your property.”
The words came out harder than she’d intended, razor edged and absolute. She saw Greyson’s head tilt further, a small, familiar movement that told her she’d struck a nerve. Good. Let him feel something of what she felt—this suffocating trap closing around her.
Jameson’s body tensed against hers. He turned slightly, confusion evident in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way his gaze darted between her and Greyson.
“What’s he talking about?” The question was directed at her, but his eyes remained fixed on Greyson, tracking every minute shift in posture, every potential signal of attack.
Before she could answer, Greyson pushed away from the doorframe, taking a single step into the room. The movement was too calm, almost languid, but Shadera recognized the deadly intent beneath the relaxed facade.
“Do you really not recognize me?” Greyson asked, something odd entering his tone—a note that could have been amusement or contempt or both.
Jameson’s response came immediately. “Obviously I fucking do. The Executioner.” His voice hardened on the last word, loaded with all the hatred, all the suffering that title had inflicted on the rings.
“Interesting.” Greyson’s head nodded subtly. “I thought my voice or at least presence would be more memorable.”
Shadera stepped forward suddenly, her voice shifting from anger to something closer to pleading.
“Please,” she said, looking directly at Greyson, “let us go. I know you don’t want to keep me prisoner.
I know you’re not like your father.” The words felt too intimate, too revealing of the complicated understanding that had developed between them, but she kept speaking. “You don’t have to do this.”
Greyson remained perfectly still, his eyes fixed on hers. Something shifted in their depths, a flicker of emotion quickly suppressed.
“You made your choice, Shadera,” he finally said. “When you took my contract, when you agreed to my father’s terms, you set events in motion that cannot be undone.”
“What terms?” Jameson demanded, his voice tight with growing anger. “What the fuck is he talking about, Shade?”