Page 60 of Black Heart

“Morelli? Come himself?” He coughs, spitting blood. “You’re out of the loop, Scythe. The old man’s dying. Terminal. He’s not going anywhere.”

Kaden goes rigid. Even through the mask, I sense the shock rippling through him.

“What did you say?”

The modulator barely conceals the disbelief in Kaden’s voice.

The captive laughs, a harsh sound. “You think I’m going to explain?”

“You seem to have misunderstood your situation.”

Kaden presses the blade deeper, slowly, as though he were slicing off a pad of butter. The captive’s laughter dies, replaced by an anguished squeal.

A sick dread crawls up my spine. I press my lips together, keeping down the vomit threatening to rise.

“Still nothing?” Kaden’s voice suddenly becomes distant, as if his spirit is the one being tortured instead of his captive. “Then let’s keep playing.”

With a fluid maneuver that belies his imposing size, Kaden shoots to his feet and paces around his victim, whose face blanches with panic.

Kaden kneels back down, his knee crushing into the man’s sternum. “You are here because I allowed it. And you will leave only when I’ve had my fill.”

He traces along the man’s jawline. As Kaden leans in, his blade cuts along the man’s cheek, lifting skin. “Tell me, or I’ll replace my mask with your face.”

Between gritting his teeth and arching off the floor, the assassin wrenches his lips open and sucks in a sharp breath, choking on fear and a rank mouthful of defeat. “Cancer’s eating him alive. Got a few months, tops.”

When Kaden’s scalpel pauses, the assassin’s grin is red-stained. “But don’t worry. Someone’s waiting in the wings. Someone who’ll make you wish it was still Morelli.”

Kaden flings the blade aside, its metal pinging against my window and cracking the glass. His hand shoots out, gripping the man’s throat.

“Who?” he snarls, composure cracking. “Who’s taking over?”

“Don’t know,” the assassin wheezes. “Nobody does. But the word is, they’re something else. Cold. Brilliant. Morelli’s perfect successor.”

Kaden’s breathing shreds through the mouth of his mask, the sound harsh underneath his disguise. His mind seems to be racing, grappling with the news—the revenge he so meticulously planned for is slipping away in the form of a dying enemy.

His fingers tighten around the assassin’s throat, a terrible keening sound coming from behind his mask.

Seeing Kaden falter catches me off guard. Kaden’s always been the epitome of control. For the first time, I notice the cracks in his armor, fissures revealing a man driven by grief, vengeance ... and futility.

My voice is a thin whisper, lost under his thunderous rage. “Stop it, Kaden.”

He doesn’t let go. The assassin’s face is turning an ugly shade of purple, his eyes bulging. His struggles are growing weaker, flailing hands reaching for Kaden’s arm with less and less conviction.

“Kaden, stop!”

My voice strengthens. I push off the bed and step into the man’s pool of blood, desperate to pull Kaden back from the precipice he’s teetering on. “You need him alive!”

Something in my plea seems to reach him. As if emerging from a trance, his fingers slacken, and he releases his hold on the assassin’s throat.

The man collapses against the floorboards, rolling to his side as he sucks in jagged gulps of air. Blood oozes from the gash on his cheek, mingling with the rivulets of sweat that course down his ashen skin.

Kaden rises to his feet, his movements stiff and mechanical. He retrieves his scalpel from the floor, the blade glinting in the light that filters through the retreating storm clouds and into my window. When he turns to face me, the emotionless mask that conceals his features seems more ominous than ever, a barrier that shields him from the truth.

He may not win this war.

When Kaden faces the assassin again, his voice is ice. “Tell Morelli Death’s coming, and it wears my face. For him, his successor, all of it.”

The assassin gives a rapid nod.

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