"Repeat after me."
My father's voice slices through the silence like a blade.
"I, Raven Black of the Black Clan Assassins..."
I stand in the center of the circular chamber, spine straight despite the searing pain. Blood drips steadily from the gash across my abdomen, soaking the waistband of my pants. My left arm dangles uselessly at my side—dislocated and swollen, the bone nearly pushing through skin. Every breath burns. But I don't flinch. I don't falter.
"I, Raven Black of the Black Clan Assassins," I echo, my voice steady, hard.
"Hereby swear an oath to the Council of Families."
My lips twist in spite of myself. I repeat the words anyway. "Hereby swear an oath to the Council of Families."
"To pledge my life to my father, to the Council, and to protect the bloodline—at all costs."
I want to scream. I want to spit in his face. But I force my voice to obey. "I pledge my life to my father, to the Council, and to protect the bloodline—at all costs."
The room watches in silence.
The chamber is full—every family in the network has sent someone to witness this. Council leaders line the edge like predators waiting for the weak to stumble. Phoenix stands across the room, silent, unmoving, his jaw locked so tight it might break. I don't look at him. If I do, I'll crumble.
My father steps forward now, slow and theatrical, like the showman he's always been. Nine other council members fall into step behind him in perfect sync.
He stops in front of me.
"I'm proud of what you've become, Raven." His voice is low, intimate. His hand reaches for mine. I don't have the strength to stop him. "You were always my favorite."
His fingers curl around mine, and I resist the urge to pull away.
"You're my beautiful little raven," he whispers.
I force myself not to flinch, not to scream. The lie sits in my throat like acid.
He raises our clasped hands high above our heads. His voice booms.
"To the Black Clan Assassins!"
The room erupts in cheers and applause. Chants echo off the stone walls like the growl of a beast waking from slumber.
I rip my hand away, subtly but with enough force to show I'm done playing his puppet.
I take one step toward the exit, desperate to get out of this tomb, to breathe real air—when an arm snakes around my waist and yanks me back.
Phoenix.
I sag against his chest. My body's too weak to stand on its own. My legs tremble. Vision swims. He tightens his hold without saying a word.
"Phoenix," comes a voice from the side—Councilman Green. "Good to see you again. Enjoy the show?"
Phoenix's smile is dead. "It was... eventful."
My stomach turns. A fresh wave of nausea hits. I swallow hard, refusing to show weakness.
"Gentlemen," Phoenix says tightly, "it's been a pleasure, but I need to get her home before she collapses."
He doesn't wait for permission. He turns on his heel and walks me out of the chamber, arms still firm around me.
"Phoenix," I rasp.
"I know," he whispers. "But if I let go now, you'll hit the floor."
He's right. I feel it coming—the darkness curling at the edge of my vision, the cold sweat sliding down my spine.
"Get me out of here," I grit.
"I've got you, Raven."
We reach the jeep outside. The others are already waiting. Crow and Dove in the front. Sparrow curled up in the back seat, headphones in, eyes shut.
I glance around, frowning. "No Robin?"
Phoenix stiffens as he opens the door. "Not today."
I want to ask why. I don't. I already know the answer.
The air inside the jeep is thick. Phoenix helps me into the backseat before sliding in behind me. I slump against the seat, too weak to pretend anymore. My shirt is soaked in blood and sweat, my skin ice cold. Every pulse in my body feels like it's pushing me closer to blacking out.
"I'm fine," I hiss under my breath, trying to pull away as Phoenix wraps an arm around me again.
"You're not," he replies, calm but firm. "Just let it be."
I want to fight. My pride claws at my throat, begging me to push him off. But I know he's right. I'm barely conscious. One sharp stop and I'd be face-first on the floor.
"Airport," Phoenix says to Crow.
I freeze.
"What?" I twist toward him weakly. "No. I'm not going to the island."
No one speaks.
"I said—" I sit up straighter, the effort sending a lightning bolt of pain down my spine. "I'm not going."
Phoenix says nothing. Crow keeps his eyes on the road. Even Dove goes still.
"I cleared it with Frederick," Phoenix says after a beat. "Everything's prepped. We leave tonight."
"I said I'm not going!" I snarl. "I'm not some kid you can sedate and drag around anymore, Phoenix. I'm not—"
A sharp, white-hot pain stabs into my leg.
I gasp.
My head whips to the side just in time to see Sparrow withdrawing a small silver needle, already capped and tucked away like it never happened. She doesn't even look at me.
"What the fuck did you just—?"
"It's for your own good," Sparrow says quietly, almost gently. "You're about to pass out anyway. Better to do it clean."
I want to scream at her, claw her face off. I open my mouth but no words come out. Just the slow, rising fog of whatever she injected me with.
My limbs go heavy. My mouth doesn't work right. My heartbeat echoes in my ears like distant thunder.
"Fucking bastards," I mumble.
Phoenix presses a kiss to my temple, his voice low in my ear. "Sleep, little shadow. We'll talk later."
And then—nothing.
Phoenix hasn't spoken a word since we left the club, and honestly? I don't blame him. What's there to say when your little sister just stared down the most dangerous man in this city like she wasn't scared of death? Like she wanted it.
I sit in the passenger seat, one leg curled beneath me, my fingers still twitching from the weight of the AK I handed back to Crow. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, like a cigarette buzz that won't wear off. But under it... there's something else. Something worse.
Alejandro's eyes.
They're still with me.
Piercing. Calculated. Like he was reading my sins straight off my skin and didn't mind the blood.
Phoenix drives fast but smooth, knuckles pale on the wheel, his jaw locked like a loaded gun. The tension coming off him could shatter glass. I know him well enough to know this silence isn't calm — it's rage dressed in patience.
"You're mad," I say quietly, breaking the stillness.
His eyes flick to me for half a second before returning to the road. "No. I'm fucking livid."
I nod. "Thought so."
He doesn't look at me again. Doesn't need to. His voice is low, controlled — the kind of tone that always comes before something explodes.
"You froze, Raven. When he looked at you, you froze."
I don't deny it. "I know."
"You've never done that before."
"No," I admit. "I haven't."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "What did you feel?"
I hate that he asks it so calmly. So clinically. Like he's dissecting me. Like I'm one of our enemies strapped to a chair in the basement.
I look out the window, watching the trees whip past. "I don't know."
"Bullshit."
I clench my jaw. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Tough."
The car jerks as he pulls sharply onto the gravel path leading up to the estate. The crunch beneath the tires is deafening in the silence. As we park, I reach for the door, but Phoenix grabs my wrist.
"Listen to me," he says, turning to face me fully. His eyes are the only calm thing about him. "Whatever this is with him — attraction, curiosity, I don't care — it ends. Do you hear me?"
I yank my wrist free. "You don't control me."
"I do when you're risking the family."
"I didn't risk anything. We got what we needed. He'll bring us the Viper."
Phoenix slams his door shut before I can say more, storming toward the house. I follow slower, letting the cold night air burn off some of the heat in my blood.
Inside, the others are scattered — Dove is on her laptop in the living room, Sparrow's got a glass of whiskey in hand, and Crow is sharpening a knife with too much focus. They all look up when we enter.
Phoenix doesn't speak to them. He just tosses his jacket to the floor and disappears up the stairs.
The room falls quiet.
"You good?" Crow asks, his voice low.
"No," I answer honestly. "But I'm fine."
Sparrow snorts into her drink. "You looked like you wanted to kiss that fucker."
I shoot her a look so sharp she doesn't finish her sip.
"I'm going to bed," I mutter. "Wake me in four hours."
As I head toward the stairs, Phoenix's door opens. He stands there, backlit by the hallway light, arms crossed.
"You're meeting him again. At sunrise."
I freeze mid-step. "What?"
"His driver will pick you up. I want eyes on him at all times. Play nice. Get close."
"Phoenix—"
"You wanted to be part of this mission? Then do your job, Raven."
I grit my teeth.
He's not sending me because I'm the best for the task.
He's sending me because I'm the bait
I told myself I wouldn't go back.
That tonight, I'd sleep through the ache and wake up without needing him.
But the second my bare feet touched the cold tile floor of the greenhouse, I knew I'd lied again.
It's always like this.
This place is the only untouched thing left — no screams, no orders, no blood. Just ivy wrapping its way across glass like veins over pale skin, and the smell of wet soil and life. Everything about it feels like a wound that never scabs over. A fragile lie I step into, hoping no one tears it away.
Behind me, I hear the soft creak of the door opening.
I don't turn.
"I shouldn't be here," Ryan says, his voice that same warm velvet that never fits this place.
"And yet you are."
A pause.
Then quiet footsteps. He's always careful, like he thinks I'll break if he moves too fast. He doesn't get it — I've been broken for years. But still, I let him treat me like something delicate. Like something worth protecting.
"I saw you in the hallway earlier," he says, stepping beside me. "You didn't even look at me."
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
Because if I looked at you, I would've run to you. Because if I touched you, I wouldn't have stopped.
I swallow hard. "Because I didn't want to remember that I'm still human."
His eyes soften, but there's a flash of pain there too. He knows I only say things like that when I'm coming apart.
Ryan reaches out and brushes my fingers — just barely. "You don't have to do this alone."
"You don't know what it's like."
"Then tell me."
I turn to him, and everything I've been fighting to keep buried floods my chest. I hate how easily he does this — how just one look from him makes me want to rip open every stitch I've forced into place.
"I've done things," I whisper. "Things I can't take back."
He cups my face with both hands, thumbs tracing the edges of a healing bruise. "You were trying to survive."
"No," I say. "I was trying to be someone who wouldn't fall apart."
His mouth is close to mine now. Too close. Close enough to remember how he tastes. Close enough to remember how much I hate not touching him.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes.
I don't. I can't.
And then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss starts soft — like he's giving me time to change my mind. Like he doesn't know it's already too late. I grab the front of his shirt, desperate, pulling him against me until I feel him, warm and solid, grounding me. His hands trail down my arms, my back, my hips. When he lifts me onto the edge of the table, the plants shift and scatter, but I don't care.
Nothing else exists but this.
Him.
Us.
"I shouldn't love you," I murmur against his throat. "But I do."
He lifts his head to look me in the eyes, and I feel like he sees me. Really sees me.
"Then don't stop."
Clothes vanish. Hands find home. We move like we've done this a thousand times before — not frantic, not rushed, just right. For the first time in weeks, I let go of the weight. Of the knives tucked inside my ribs. Of the death I carry like perfume.
When I'm lying against his chest, our legs tangled under an old greenhouse blanket, I listen to his heart beat steady beneath my ear. Safe. Real.
He presses a kiss into my hair and says, "I love you, Raven."
And for one tiny second, I believe I could survive this world with him.
"I know," I whisper back. "That's what makes this so dangerous."
Present.
The alarm shatters the silence like a blade to the gut.
I jolt upright in bed, my chest heaving, breath caught somewhere between the past and the now. My skin's damp with sweat, my fingers clenched in the sheets like I'd been trying to hold on to him — to Ryan — even after the dream started bleeding away.
He's gone.
But the way my body still aches for him makes it feel like he just left.
I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, blinking the haze from my eyes. The house is still mostly dark, the kind of pre-dawn cold that settles in the bones. Somewhere downstairs, the motion sensor is picking up movement — probably Crow pacing again or Sparrow sneaking a cigarette near the gate.
The soft tap-tap on my door doesn't surprise me.
Phoenix never waits long.
I already know the shape of his silhouette through the glass — tall, shoulders tense, always too still.
"Come in," I mutter, reaching for the black shirt on the floor.
He opens the door just as I'm dragging it over my head. I don't look at him. Not yet.
"You were screaming in your sleep again," he says quietly.
"I wasn't." But even I hear the lie in my voice.
Phoenix closes the door behind him and crosses the room, tossing a folded black hoodie onto the bed. "Put that on. It's cold as shit outside."
I slide it over my arms, the scent of detergent and gun oil clinging to it like second skin. Phoenix stands across from me, arms folded. Watching.
Judging.
"Something you wanna say, big brother?"
He doesn't answer at first. Just studies me with that unreadable expression — the one he always wears before a lecture. And then:
"You can't let him get into your head, Raven."
My heart stutters.
"Who?"
"Alejandro." His voice sharpens, like glass ground beneath a boot. "You were rattled last night. I saw it."
"I wasn't rattled."
"You froze."
"I didn't—"
He steps forward, his voice low but hard as steel. "You did. For two full seconds when he looked at you. That's the kind of mistake that gets people killed."
I look away, jaw tightening.
"I handled it," I mutter.
He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You shouldn't have to handle anything with him. This isn't some twisted courtship, Raven. He's not interested in you. He's interested in control."
"You think I don't know that?"
"Then act like it."
Silence stretches between us, thick and ugly. Phoenix paces once, twice, then stops in front of me again.
"I don't care if he's charming. I don't care if he's pretty. I don't care if he knows how to look at you like he's peeling you open just to see what's underneath. He's not your friend. He's not your savior. He's not Ryan."
My stomach twists.
"That's low."
"Yeah, well," he sighs. "I'm not here to be gentle."
I stare down at my hands — scarred knuckles, ink-stained wrists, a faint tremble I pretend not to notice.
"You think I'm slipping," I whisper.
"I think you're tired. I think your head is half in the past, half in some fantasy where you don't have to live like this anymore."
I glance up at him, lips tight. "What if I am?"
"Then you're going to get yourself killed."
He leans down, presses something into my hand — a small black comm earpiece. "You're meeting him in four hours. Don't go in soft. Don't let him see what you feel."
"I don't feel anything."
"Bullshit," he says.
And then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the ghosts again.
The drive felt endless.
The tires crunched against the gravel as the gates to the estate came into view. Black iron. Twelve feet high. Flanked by two lion statues and a keypad already waiting for me. The second I rolled down the window, the gates began to part, slow and ominous.
Figures.
He was expecting me.
I drove past them and followed the long, winding driveway. Perfectly trimmed hedges bordered the gravel on either side. The house — if you could call it that — emerged from behind a grove of twisted oaks. Mansion, maybe. Fortress, more likely. All brutal lines and shadowed balconies. It looked like it belonged to a villain in a myth. A place built to witness sins.
And standing on the front steps, as if he owned the fucking world?
Alejandro.
He wore a dark dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, two buttons undone. Black slacks. No tie. No gun — at least none I could see. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone but hiding something too alive beneath it. And his eyes... those sharp, ice-blue eyes that didn't just look at you. They sliced through you.
I pulled up slowly. Parked. Didn't kill the engine right away.
He waited.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of hesitating. I stepped out, closing the door behind me with a quiet finality.
His eyes swept over me — not like a man checking out a woman. No. This was a calculation. A hunt.
And I gave him nothing.
"Raven Black," he said, voice smooth like bourbon and sin. "Right on time."
I didn't answer. Just stared.
His lips twitched. "No hello?"
"I'm not here to exchange pleasantries."
"Shame." He gestured toward the open doors behind him. "I had fresh coffee brewed. Colombian. Dark roast. I figured you'd appreciate quality."
I moved past him without a word.
He didn't follow immediately — which I was sure was deliberate. It gave him a moment to study how I moved. I didn't flinch under his gaze. My boots echoed off the stone floor as I stepped inside.
The house was immaculate. Cold, silent, a shrine to control. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and leather. High ceilings. Abstract art. Everything black, white, and blood red.
"I see you don't decorate with warmth," I muttered, eyes scanning the interior.
Alejandro stepped up beside me. "Sentiment clouds judgment. Don't you agree?"
"I wouldn't know. I don't feel much these days."
That got a smile out of him. Just a hint.
"Good," he said quietly. "That'll make this easier."
I turned to him slowly. "Make what easier?"
He didn't answer. Just motioned for me to follow him through the hall. I did — but every step, every shift of air, I memorized. Where his hands went. What he touched. The small surveillance camera tucked into the molding above the archway.
He led me to a room on the second floor. Large windows. Minimal furniture. One massive bed. A fireplace. Two armchairs. A view of the back gardens — and likely a dozen hidden exits and traps.
"This is yours. For the next seventy-two hours."
"I don't need a bed."
"You'll need rest," he replied smoothly. "Interrogation requires stamina."
I froze, just for a second.
He watched me.
"Relax. I meant mine. I'll be asking the questions. You'll answer what you can. Truthfully, if possible. Or at least convincingly." He stepped toward me, slow, deliberate. "You're not here to spy. You're not here to threaten. You're here... because I asked for you."
His nearness was calculated. I saw the way his fingers brushed his cuff, exposing the ink curling up his wrist. How his voice dropped a register when he spoke my name.
"You wanted me here," I said flatly. "Now what?"
"Now," he murmured, "we see how well you play the game."
I didn't react. Didn't move. I let silence stretch between us like a noose. Let him wonder how much of me was waiting to strike.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're colder than I expected."
"And you're less dangerous."
That made him laugh. Deep. Amused. But the glint in his eyes said he noticed — the way I stood perfectly still, the way I didn't scan the room again. I'd already done it. Already clocked every escape, every weakness.
"I'll leave you to settle in," he said eventually. "Breakfast is at eight. You'll eat with me."
"I eat alone."
His lips quirked. "You don't. Not here."
He turned and walked out.
I didn't move until the echo of his boots faded completely.
Then, finally, I sat on the edge of the bed — not out of comfort. Out of necessity.
Seventy-two hours with a man who might be the Viper.
A man who hides power behind charm, and motives behind his smile.
He wanted me here.
Let's see how long he can survive that choice
The smell of coffee is the first thing that hits me when I step into the dining room. Rich, dark, roasted. Strong. The kind Robin liked.
I ignore the ache in my chest.
Alejandro's already seated, his tailored shirt rolled to the elbows, one hand lazily turning the page of a newspaper I doubt he's reading. He doesn't look up when I walk in.
"Sleep well?" he asks, voice smooth as silk, as if we're old friends sharing morning croissants instead of killers dancing around truths.
I don't answer. Just walk past him, grab the coffee pot, pour myself a mug. It's French press. Quality. Not that it matters.
He finally looks up, his eyes meeting mine across the polished wood table. "Still not speaking to me?"
"I'm only here for one reason," I say flatly, taking a seat across from him. "Don't mistake that for anything else."
A hint of amusement pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I don't. You're not the mistakable type."
We sit in silence for a moment. Silverware clinks softly as he cuts into eggs he probably didn't cook. I just sip my coffee and study him. Alejandro is too at ease. Too composed. No twitch in his hand. No guilt in his eyes.
He sets his fork down. "I've located someone. One of the Viper's runners—low-level, but he's worked with them before. May have seen his face."
"Where?" I ask.
"Twenty minutes from here. Warehouse outside the city. Goes by the name Mace." Alejandro reaches for a cloth napkin, wipes his mouth delicately. "He won't talk easy."
"I wasn't expecting him to."
A beat of quiet.
Then Alejandro stands and buttons his cuffs, cool and unhurried. "I thought we'd pay him a visit before lunch.