Page 68 of Silent Schemes
He knows the game, knows I'm balancing on a knife's edge between two worlds. "Be careful, Ruin."
The pet name is a reminder and a warning.
I'm still dangerous, even if I'm his.
I answer on the second ring. "Yes?"
"Neutral ground. One hour. Metrotown parking garage, level three." The voice is familiar but unexpected—Bastian, my cousin.
Not Vincent.
That's... concerning.
Bastian is younger, hungrier, more eager to prove himself to my father.
More unpredictable.
"Understood."
The line goes dead.
Varrick is watching me, reading every micro-expression, every tell I haven't learned to hide from him.
"They're checking on you," he says.
It’s not a question.
"It's been three weeks. They want a progress report." I set down my coffee cup, my hand surprisingly steady. "It's Bastian, not Vincent. That's not good."
"Your cousin." It's not a question.
Of course, he knows about Bastian, probably knows about every member of the Cross family tree. "The one who thinks he should be Theodore's heir instead of you."
"I'm not Theodore's heir. I'm his weapon."
"You're more than that, and everyone knows it. Especially Bastian." He catches my wrist as I move past him. "You could not go."
"And they'd come here. Or go after Maya." I meet his eyes, willing him to understand. "I have to maintain the illusion a little longer."
"How much longer, Sienna?" His use of my real name stops me cold.
He only uses it when he's serious, when the masks are completely off. "How many more weeks before you have to choose?"
"I've already chosen," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "I'm just trying to find a way for us both to survive it."
He pulls me against him, kisses me with a desperation that matches my own.
When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine. "Whatever happens, whatever they threaten, remember—you're mine now. And I protect what's mine."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I whisper, then pull away before I confess everything—the timeline, the threats, the impossible situation we're in.
I dress carefully for the meeting—jeans that allow movement, a leather jacket that conceals weapons, boots that can run or fight.
I strap a knife to my thigh, another to my ankle, a gun to the small of my back.
Varrick watches from the doorway, memorizing every weapon, every tell. "Three hours," he says. "If you're not back in three hours, I'm coming for you."
"Varrick—"
