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. Idon’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.”
