But I've seen her fight.
I've seen what she can do with those dual blades she carries, the way she moves through violence like it's choreography. Six men in under a minute, and she wasn't even breathing hard when she finished.
Ballet, Sage said.
She's a dancer.
It makes sense now—the grace, the precision, the way every movement seems deliberate even when it shouldn't be. She's trained her body to be an instrument, and she plays it with the skill of a master musician.
But that still doesn't explain why my father would see her as a threat.
She's one Omega.
Packless.
Alone.
What could she possibly do to the Lawson empire that would warrant assassination orders?
Unless...
The Eastman legacy.
The name echoes in my skull, dragging memories with it.
I was seventeen when my father ordered the hit on the Eastman family. Old enough to understand what was happening, young enough to believe the justification he gave—that they were enemies, threats, obstacles to be eliminated for the good of the empire.
I didn't question it.
Didn't ask why.
Just accepted that this was how our world worked, and if people had to die to keep us safe, then that was the price of power.
But now...
Now I'm standing in a borrowed mansion, watching the sole surviving daughter of that massacre sleep in my armchair, and I'm starting to wonder what I was never told.
What secrets my father buried along with those bodies.
What sins are attached to the Lawson name that made him willing to kill his own heir rather than risk exposure.
I uncross my arms.
Take a step forward.
Then another.
My feet are silent on the hardwood—years of training, of learning to move without sound, of becoming the weapon my father wanted me to be. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm using those skills now to approach an enemy he also tried to destroy.
She doesn't stir as I crouch beside the chair.
Her face is peaceful in sleep—softer than I've seen it, the sharp edges and manic energy temporarily smoothed away. Her pink hair falls across her cheek in damp strands, still slightly wetfrom the shower. The dark circles under her eyes are prominent, testament to whatever hell she's been living through.
Lonely, she said.
I just don't want to be lonely anymore.
The admission shouldn't affect me.
