The ropes dug in, Not just pain anymore. Numbness. Her wrists throbbed in a rhythm she hated, steady and useless, like her pulse was mocking her for still being alive.
Because yeah, unfortunately… Eris was still alive.
Still tied. Still trapped. Still the unwilling audience to this sadistic little comedy show starring two overgrown cockroaches who thought breathing the same air as her was an accomplishment.
One lounged on the table, legs swinging like a bored teen skipping detention. The other leaned in way too close, breath stale with cheap cigarettes and cheaper intentions.
Fingers. Rough. Cruel. Tapping her temple, right on the damn wound.
She flinched, just a twitch, but didn't give him the sound he wanted. No gasp. No whimper.
He smiled anyway. Sick bastard. Fingers trailed down to her cheek, tapped twice. Slow. Casual. Like she was his personal drum kit.
"You're kinda hot when you're pissed," he whispered. Hot? She could rip his lips off with her nails if these ropes gave her even an inch.
The other one, chewing gum like it was a personality trait, chimed in. "Careful, bro. She might fall in love for real."
"Maybe. Look at those cheeks, blushing." The first guy cupped his own chin, pretending to think. "Wonder if it's just the cheeks that are warm…"
Laughter. Ugly, loud, brain-cell-murdering laughter. Eris swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
No. No reaction. They didn't get that. They'd already taken her movement, hell if they were getting her pride.
The first one leaned back, chin-jerked toward her. "Who you think she is? Some lost princess?"
"Maybe," the gum-chewer shrugged. "Face like that? Seen dozens at midnight events. Sweet on the surface, sharp underneath."
Eris gave a smile. Razor-thin. "Cute. You two talk like you know me. But I've seen bacteria with higher IQs."
That killed the laughter.
One stopped mid-smirk. The other, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring. "Still got that mouth, huh?" he muttered.
"That's not mouth. That's just facts," Eris said flatly. "And the fact is, you're both pathetic." The room stilled. Smiles died.
One of them stepped in… Closer. Closer.
Now only two fingers apart from her face. He grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look up, pressure cruel but precise.
"Sharp tongue, sweetheart." His breath was hot. Rotten. "Let's see how long you can keep it."
Her face didn't flinch. But her heartbeat, chaotic. Trapped in her ribs, clawing for an exit.
This wasn't banter anymore. The air had shifted. They weren't bored. They were waiting.
But for what? And worse… Who?
Footsteps.
From the hallway. Slow. Heavy. Certain. Both guys turned, almost at the same time.
Not fear.
Not quite.
But… not relaxed either. Eris held her breath. The footsteps got louder, measured, unbothered.
A figure stepped out from the dark. And those eyes. Cold. Gray. Sharper than the knives they hadn't used, yet.
And this time? This wasn't a dream. Wasn't shock. Wasn't some fevered trick of survival.
No. He was real. And he was here.
The footsteps got louder. Heavier. Like each step was punching the air out of the room.
Eris thought she'd be the main event. Spotlight. Center of this sick little stage. But apparently… no. The man who walked in didn't even look her way.
Tall. Built like his bones were forged, not born. Silver hair a mess like he'd walked out of a warzone, or caused one. And that voice?
Low. Sharp. Slicing through the silence like a blade dragged against glass. "...me dijiste que los materiales ya estaban listos. ¿Entonces qué carajo es esto?"
Spanish. Rough accent. Nothing sexy about it. This wasn't soap-opera romantic. This was... someone who'd just killed three men and was now pissed he stepped on gum.
Her breath caught.
Okay. Yeah. Definitely not a lost tourist.
He moved like he didn't need to rush. Like people waited on him, not the other way around. One hand grazed his jaw as he talked, slow and absent, but there was focus in the way he moved. A kind of controlled lethality.
And that phone? It should've burst into flames from how sharp his tone was getting. Every word felt like a countdown.
Materials. Deadlines. Algo salió mal. ..."Something went wrong."
No shit. Everything's fucked.
Only when he got closer did the room's shitty lighting finally throw enough glow to carve out his face.
Eris's stomach dropped.
That was him.
The one from the bar. The one with eyes like frost and judgment and things she couldn't name.
Gray eyes. Sharper now. There was a faint scar slicing through his brow, barely noticeable, but it added something… dangerous. Like the universe marked him on purpose.
And what really tightened her throat?
Those two assholes. The ones who'd been grinning, touching, breathing in her face like creeps at a party…
Were now standing. Straight. Silent. One even bowed his damn head. The other? Loud swallow. Obvious.
Oh.
She clocked the shift in less than a second. The way the air changed.
Not guilt.
Fear.
Not the kind that gets you grounded. The kind that gets you buried. He stopped five steps away.
Still not looking at her. Still talking into that phone, quieter now, heavier. Like his words weren't suggestions but warnings with countdowns.
"Sí, estoy aquí. Y los dos idiotas también."
His eyes shifted sideways, just the eyes. No need to move his head. And yet somehow, both men looked like they'd just been stripped naked in public.
Idiotas.
Fitting.
One of them flinched, opened his mouth. Tried to explain. "Señor, we were just, she…" The man lifted a hand. No rush. Just... lifted.
And the idiot shut the fuck up.
Then he walked. Slow, to a table on the side, phone still to his ear, still discussing "shipments" and "delays" and, was he literally planning a hit right now?
Eris sat motionless, breath shallow. Her temples throbbed with dried blood, skin tight from crusted crimson. Everything pulsed.
This wasn't a prank. Not a joke. Not a bad night. This was power.
And… He didn't belong in the same universe as the two jokers who'd been playing with her. He was older. Higher. Colder.
She saw it now, clear as the blood on her cheek. He hadn't come for her.
But now? Now he knew she was here. And that… That was so much worse.
Silence. Not the peaceful kind. No, this one pressed down like a weight on her chest. Heavy. Suffocating.
He'd ended the call. But didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't even blink.
Those eyes, gray, flat like overcast skies right before a storm, locked on her now. Not like earlier. This time… they stayed. They cut.
No smile. No warmth. Just a stare that vacuumed the air out of the room.
Metal scraped against tile. A deep, grating sound that vibrated through her ribs. He dragged a solid iron table across the floor with one hand like it weighed nothing. Like gravity didn't apply to him. His body moved with precision, fluid and quiet, like a man who didn't need to rush to be dangerous.
The table landed in front of her.
He sat. Eris didn't breathe right.
Not because she was scared. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly because... something about him told her she wasn't in the kiddie pool anymore.
This wasn't two cocky assholes trying to flex for fun.
This was deep water. Dark. Cold. And filled with things that didn't need to show their teeth to kill.
She looked back. Held his gaze. Stupid move? Probably. But fuck it, she wasn't about to flinch first.
His stare didn't soften. Just observed. Calculating, like he was still flipping a coin in his head about what she was worth.
Seconds stretched. Long enough to itch. Then finally, finally, he spoke.
"…Eris Moreau." Just two words. But damn, the way he said them.
Low. Clean. Precise like a blade pressed to silk. Her name rolled off his tongue like he'd said it a thousand times before. Like he owned it.
Her throat tightened. That wasn't a greeting. It wasn't curiosity. That was knowledge. Recognition. And that changed everything.
The tiniest movement in his face, something that might've been a smile if you were desperate enough to imagine it, flashed for half a second. But it didn't touch his mouth. Or his eyes.
Especially not his eyes. They stayed cold. Sharp.
There was nothing flirtatious in them. Just... attention. Pure, unfiltered interest, the kind that didn't feel flattering… It felt dangerous.
And it slid under her skin like icewater. Then came the question. "You know why you're here?"
Simple. Almost gentle. But it rang in her ears like a loaded gun being cocked. God. She hated that voice. Too steady. Too unreadable. Too fucking deep.
Like he already knew every possible answer, and he was just curious which flavor of wrong she'd pick.
Her tongue sat heavy behind her teeth. No answer came. Not the right one, anyway.
Because how the hell do you explain that you made a few imperfect choices, and now you're sitting across from a man who could probably snap your spine with a look?
She leaned forward slightly, like her body could fake some kind of confidence her brain didn't have.
Don't fold. Don't blink. But her throat burned.
Sweat clung to the back of her neck, icy and sharp. Her fingers twitched in her lap. And all she could think about, louder than logic, louder than fear, was that this wasn't random.
She was here because of something. Because of her choices. And God help her… She wasn't sure if any of them were the right ones.
He moved closer.
Just a tilt forward, but it was enough. His breath hit her cheek, hot, rough, like a warning detonated straight from his chest.
Then came his voice. Low. Not loud. But it wasn't a sentence. It was a threat, dressed in a whisper.
"Carajo... hoy no tengo humor."
One line. Harsh.
She didn't need a damn translator to get it. The vibe alone punched harder than any Google search could.
He wasn't in the mood. And this world? Was pissing him the fuck off.
That Spanish rolled off his tongue thick, raw, like broken glass being scraped across wet tile. Icy. Violent. The kind of accent that didn't flirt. It warned.
Eris caught her breath, reflex. Her hair, still damp from earlier, clung to her cheek like cold silk. But that wasn't what made her spine lock.
It was the way he looked at her.
Like he was choosing how much of her would be left by the end of this conversation.
He slicked his silver hair back with one hand. Effortless. Slow. Like he had all the goddamn time in the world to decide what her fate would be. The gesture was smooth. Too smooth.
No rush. No nerves. Just dominance, carved into every motion. He didn't act like he was a predator.
No.
He moved like the final boss. The one you only meet when the map's already drenched in blood.
Heat crawled up Eris' throat, and it had nothing to do with nerves. This man wasn't just another suit with a temper.
He was levels above. Attractive? Absolutely. Hot? Hell probably filed a restraining order. But that don't-fuck-with-me energy? Unfiltered. No discount.
He dropped into the chair across from her like it belonged to him. Hell, like the whole room did. Legs spread, posture loose but commanding. A living contradiction, relaxed violence.
And then, in a voice too calm to trust, he switched to English. Flat. Clean. And somehow worse than the Spanish.
"Return Rousseau's inheritance…"
He paused. Those gray eyes didn't just look at her. They dissected. His mouth twitched. A half-smile? A warning?
"…or die."
No rise in tone. No drama. Just a conclusion. Two words that landed like concrete dropped on a chest.
He wasn't asking. He wasn't threatening. He was deciding.
Her brain was already running a hundred backflips, every exit strategy, every potential bluff, every maybe-move that could save her ass.
But underneath all that? A single, petty, stubborn voice muttered inside her skull: Oh, you think I'm gonna beg? Cute. But also, fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck.
Her hands were still tied. Ankles too. Skin raw from the restraints. But her pride?
Untouched.
She lifted her chin, just a little. Not fake-brave. Not reckless either. Just her way of saying: I'm still here, asshole.
Her voice rasped out, broken at the edges. Lips cracked, copper on her tongue. Didn't matter.
"So you think you can just take it?" A snort escaped her before she could stop it. "What… because you're hot and know how to shove a table like you're ready to throw someone straight into hell?"
Probably not the smartest move, talking back to a devil. But if she was going out? She'd go out flaming.
No expression.
Dead serious, he didn't fucking blink. Didn't laugh. Didn't flinch. Didn't so much as twitch.
Just... sat there. Still. Like a marble statue carved in the image of death itself. And those eyes, those goddamn gray eyes, stayed locked on her face.
Calm. Focused. Lethal. He wasn't looking at her. He was calculating.
Like he was sorting through variables to figure out the cleanest, quietest way to erase someone from the planet.
Eris held her breath. Jaw locked. Alright. So maybe she misread him. She thought he'd snap. Raise his voice. Get offended. Hell, she wanted him to take the bait.
But this one? He wasn't the shouting type. He was the execution type. His left hand, resting still in his lap all this time, moved.
Just a small signal. Barely more than a flick.
And the two assholes standing behind him? Froze instantly, like someone hit the mute button on their bodies.
One of them, the prick who'd been cracking jokes at her expense earlier, peeled off toward the back of the room.
His steps were heavy. Deliberate. Eris didn't move, but she heard it. Sharp. Metal.
Something being dragged from behind a vault door. She didn't need to see it. She already knew what that sound meant.
But when the guy turned around… Oh. Oh, fuck.
He was carrying an axe.
A real one.
Wooden handle. Thick. Heavy at the top. And Jesus, there were still dried blood stains crusted near the edge. Like nobody even pretended to clean it.
This wasn't for show. Not a stage prop. Not a threat made to sound scarier than it was.
This was real.
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. Loud. Fast. Sloppy. But her face? Stone. Because fear? Wasn't new.
And she'd been hit too many times by life to let it show now. Still... if she had a choice? Yeah. She'd rather not die today.
The axe was handed off, like a gift. Silverhead took it in one hand. One fucking hand. Like it was nothing.
And then… Tuk.
The blade touched her chin. Light. But deliberate. Cold steel. He tapped her like he was thinking.
Tuk.
Weighing something. How much to cut. Where to start.
Tuk.
Like a countdown. One. Two. Three. Eris masked the tension with a crooked grin. Half-smile, half-survival reflex.
Trained. Polished. Sharp.
"So that axe… you use it for watermelon? Or, y'know, heads?"
Voice steady. Ish. A little rough around the edges. But hey, if she had to die, she'd at least die with a punchline.
And him? Still didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't speak. He just sat there. Poised. Perfectly straight.
Holding a murder weapon like an artist debating which brush to dip in blood first.
She didn't blink either. Didn't dare. But she wasn't going down like some silent extra in a mob movie.
Her smile sharpened. "You know my name. I'd kinda like to know yours too. So if I survive this, I can tell the cops exactly who the hell made me piss myself, right before I laughed in their face."
And then, finally, barely, barely… The edge of his mouth moved. Not a smile. Not really. It was the kind of expression someone makes right before they decide how your story ends.