Page 71 of The Collector
She stilled. The pacing stopped. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she sat with her spine rigid, breathing shallow, lost in a tangle of memory and fear.
The look on his face as he'd walked away from the club earlier answered some of the questions she had. Even though no words had passed between them. Mynx felt connected enough to him to see the hollow weight of a man unraveling beneath grief and anger unfolding before her then.
And even though he'd told her he and his father weren't close. She knew disagreement and loss were two different beasts. Had she lost her father tonight, she would have felt the sting of regret. Of his absence. And his sins against her were piled just as high as those she suspected Hector had against Raven. Mynx could only imagine what he must be feeling, even if she didn't know him well enough to be sure.
What she did know was that Raven would need her now. She could feel that— in every cell of her body. Their relationship was still so new. So fragile. There was so much about him she didn't know. And even though she wasn't sure what comfort she could offer, she knew she would give her all to help ease what he was feeling.
Mynx saw darkness settle over him in that room as the Kings carried away Hector's body. Watched the subtle way death reached for him—with a quiet erosion that hardened his features almost instantly. She knew Death didn't always shatter people. Sometimes, it warped them. Twisted people into versions they never meant to become, calcified their sorrow into unrestrained anger. And in that moment, Mynx recognized the twist he was fighting. The man she was beginning to love was submerged in its grip, fighting to keep control over himself.
Finding Raven amid the chaos of her own unraveling life was the lifeline she needed if she was honest. Now all she hoped was to be the same— for him. If she could pull him back from the edge that called him to jump into the darkness—be the gravity to keep him grounded in his grief—maybe together they could turnthis complicated situation into something that would give them both the security and strength they needed.
She'd asked insistently to talk to him. Everyone she passed— who looked like they could give her an answer—the only answers she got from anyone were that he was busy.
Finally, Shelby stopped by Mynx's room.
"Shelby, where's Raven? I need to see him," Mynx asked.
"He's… indisposed," Shelby said carefully. "That's all I can tell you. But he wanted you to know you're safe. That he'll come as soon as he can."
She hesitated, eyes dropping to her hands, fingers curling as if searching for something solid to hold onto.
"I need your help, Mynx. We can't let tonight rewrite him. Raven's more than the force behind the Kings—he's their future. And no matter what he does now… it won't bring Hector back."
Mynx nodded, the image of Raven's face earlier—tight with grief, hollow with fury—burning behind her eyes.
Shelby stood, smoothing her coat. "I have to get home to my kids," she said softly. "But promise me you'll remind him who he is."
Then she was gone.
Mynx let the shimmery dress slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a crumpled heap. The release was immediate—like shedding a second skin that had grown too tight. She stared at it on the floor, remembering how, just hours ago, it had shimmered with the promise of freedom.
She reached for the choker at her throat, fingers brushing the cool metal. With Raven gone, she felt exposed—stripped bare in more ways than one. But the choker grounded her. She remembered—they were tethered, no matter the storm. Still fighting on the same side. The uncertainty of the night clawed at her as she waited to hear from him. She knew she wouldfeel better about the whole situation once she talked to him and knew where things stood.
Mynx didn't turn on the lights. Didn't reach for music. She crossed the room in silence and settled into the chair by the window. The shadows outside shifted and stretched, restless in the dark. She pulled her legs close, arms wrapped tight, the chill clinging to her bare skin.
She hated that he hadn't come to her before he left. Hated how much she needed him to. Not for answers. Not even for reassurance. Just to be there—to be his shoulder in the momentary darkness swallowing him whole.
He was the one who needed comfort, and she wanted to be the voice that steadied him. The anchor in the storm she knew was raging inside. But he'd shut her out. And that hurt more than she wanted to admit.
She whispered his name once—to feel it in her mouth. "Raven." It felt more like a silent plea for him than a name.
Chapter 20
Collector
Everything was going just as planned.
The Collector watched the video feed from Blood Lust on his phone as the events unfolded. The buzz of anticipation sent his pulse racing with excitement. The moment things were going to start turning his way had just arrived. He watched the slim brunette deliver the tray of drinks to Raven and Hector's table. The waitress was completely unaware she was the delivery system for his poisoned glass, that she was a tool—he'd used to perfection. The glass passed through her hands with such innocence—even she didn't know it was laced. He'd slipped the cup onto her tray himself, moments before Elanah and Raven's quarrel sparked down the hallway. When Raven requested her removal from the club, it offered the perfect opportunity to avoid being present. Convenient. But somewhat calculated— just one more flawless brushstroke in a portrait of destruction he'd been composing for weeks.
Getting rumors to circulate throughout the mansion—that Raven was still obsessed with Elanah, and that Mynx was merelya stand-in—had been a stroke of brilliance. Carefully planted gossip, passed between maids with lowered voices and guards who never thought twice about pillow talk they shared with the women they fawned over, fanned insecurities into flame. It had been the perfect emotional trigger, crafted to feel accidental.
He hadn't needed Elanah to believe the rumors right away. He just needed her addiction to Raven to fester beneath the surface until tonight. He'd seen her go into Mynx's room and take her things. He knew she'd be the perfect tool to cause a distraction tonight, so he manipulated even her closest friends to edge her towards a confrontation with him tonight. Manipulation was his specialty. Not the loud kind—not threats or tantrums. No, his was the artful variant. The kind stitched into silences, pressed into the spaces between words. Even the mask he wore daily was a tool—a carefully curated lie sculpted to draw admiration, to deflect suspicion, to pull people into his orbit before they ever knew what they'd lost.
They saw what he wanted them to see. Polish. Intelligence. Charm.
But beneath that? A killers soul hid. Cold, calculating built to extract, to reorder, to erase.
He didn't just wear the mask. He became it—until even he almost forgot where the fiction ended and the architecture began.
