Page 9 of Stormhold

The reason I always preferred doing my business in the open night rather than in a closed space.

We turned a sharp right, where men in black lined the walls. They all gave Arkane a nod of acknowledgment but didn’t meet his eyes.

Suddenly, Mikhail appeared out of nowhere, his intimidating presence flanked by another whose steel eyes glared at me with disdain.

“You sure bringing in an outsider is a good idea?” The contempt was clear in his voice. He did not like me.

I showed no emotion as I met his glare; unlike his elder brother, Grayson Stormhold spoke with his fist before words. Described as a walking time bomb by the Twins Daily, the fourth son of Victor Stormhold was a force to be reckoned with in the city. But he had no effect on me like his brother. I was more cynical of the silent darkness that Arkane emanated than the loud outburst of Grayson’s fury.

“Don’t question my judgment,” Arkane said in the calmest tone, but the power in his statement rang louder than his brother’s anger. It was evident who was in charge. Never have I ever been so attracted to a man like this before. Everything from his composed stance, his poised air of confidence, and his impassive eyes was making my years of training falter, making me rethink my every move. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he did it well.

Grayson didn’t express his enmity anymore. All his previous rage flew from his face like someone flipped a switch inside him. Interesting.

He stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Grayson Stormhold.”

I eyed his hand before flicking my gaze to his ash eyes, a shade lighter than his brother’s. “Bellerose Esteal. Pardon me, I don’t like shaking hands.”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed as he quickly dropped his hand. Only the barest tic in his jaw gave away his act.

I could feel the heaviness of Arkane’s eyes on me with an amused smile. He was probably thinking I lied. I didn’t. I don’t ever lie. It was a hard code to follow when you spend your nights trying to rid the streets of evil. But I lived by it.

And I certainly didn’t lie when I said I didn’t like shaking hands—I really didn’t. I didn’t like strangers’ touch. I even took careful consideration to never touch my prey. My blade did the work for me.

But that rule became nonexistent for one man.

When he held out his hand earlier today, I took it like it was the most natural thing for me to do.

Somehow, his touch was different.

Everything about him was different.

I had a feeling he was going to wreck my heart, and I was going to gladly let him. Because who wouldn’t want their heart to be broken by this beautiful man?

Right?

CHAPTER 4

BELLE

Mikhail opened a large iron door at the end of the corridor, and we followed him inside; only the sound of my heels clicking on the hard floor reverberated through the walls laced with the echo of dripping water. Almost as if there was a broken pipe nearby.

But I knew it was a day-old torture tactic. The repetitive sound robs you of your sense of time and mentally breaks you. I knew because it took me eighty-seven days in a cold, dark cave to become unbothered by it.

The room smells like death has had a feast inside and left its souls behind. People died here. Evil people died here, and I didn’t like lingering in this space any longer than necessary.

The present looked terribly worse than when I left him. His hands were raised over his head, held by two thick chains, his frail body hanging limply, barely held upright by the tips of his toes that grazed the floor. His shoulders were most definitely dislocated at this point. Several bloody lacerations marked his torso. His toes were nailed together, with the nails still protruding out of the flesh. If not for the weak state of his body, he was going to die from the infection alone.

A hollow space remained in what would’ve been his right eye. The bone of the socket gaped, crying tears of blood and pus.

It looked like the Stormholds had completed the work I left unfinished.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Wat…water,” he wheezed, as his left eye opened to a thin slit. “Water, please.”

“You don’t need water to speak to me.”

“Pl…please.” A spray of red-tinged mucus spurted out of this mouth.