Page 14 of Knuckles & Knives
This time, he doesn’t direct me to the staircase. The private elevator to Marcus’s office feels like ascending into the mouth of a beautifully appointed hell. The polished steel doors reflect my face back at me in fragments—amber eyes bright with adrenaline, split lip from the fight, and harder features than the ones I had five years ago.
“Second thoughts?” Marcus asks quietly, his cultured voice cutting through the elevator’s mechanical hum.
“Always,” I admit, “but second thoughts are a luxury I can’t afford right now.”
“Honesty. How refreshing.” His reflection meets mine in the steel doors. “Most people in our line of work prefer comfortable lies.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, “you’re decidedly not.”
The doors slide open to reveal his office bathed in soft amber lighting. It’s even more impressive the second time around—all clean lines and expensive technology, with those floor-to-ceiling windows offering a perfect view of the chaos below. But now I notice details I missed before: the subtle reinforcement in the walls, the discrete security cameras positioned to capture every angle, and most importantly, the way every piece of furniture is positioned to give Marcus tactical advantages in any conversation.
This isn’t just an office. It’s a command center.
“Drink?” he offers, moving to that well-stocked bar cart with practiced ease. “I have everything from top-shelf whiskey to something that won’t knock you unconscious if you’re worried about being drugged.”
“Paranoid much?”
“Alive much,” he counters with a smile that’s all edges. “In our world, the two tend to go hand in hand. I’m afraid I don’t generally keep beer here.”
Ah, he remembered my comment. I almost forgot I slipped him that nugget of truth.
I settle into one of the leather chairs positioned to face his desk, noting that it gives me a clear view of both the door and the windows while keeping my back to a solid wall. “Smart setup you have here.”
“Thank you. I believe in being prepared for all possibilities. “He pours two glasses of something amber and most likely expensive, offering me one before taking the chair across from me rather than behind his desk. A gesture of equality or at least the pretense of it. “Including the possibility that Vincent Blackwood’s daughter might one day return from the dead seeking revenge.”
I accept the glass and study the way the liquid catches the light. I don’t only drink beer, but when I’m dealing with high-powered men, I won’t dare take a single sip. I need to remain sharp.
“How long have you known who I am?” I ask.
“From the moment you walked through those doors.” His dark eyes are steady on mine, and I can practically see the gears turning behind them. “Facial recognition software is remarkably advanced these days, even when accounting for five years of growth and trauma-induced changes.”
“‘Trauma-induced changes.’” I repeat the clinical phrase with bitter amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you prefer? Weapons-grade metamorphosis? Evolution through violence?” He takes a measured sip of his drink. “The terminology doesn’t change the reality. You’re not the same person who fled this city five years ago.”
“No, I’m not. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing…”
Maybe one sip won’t hurt.
I finally taste the whiskey—smooth and expensive, with an edge that burns just enough to remind me where I am.
“From my perspective? Exceptionally good.” He lifts his glass toward me. “The sheltered princess wouldn’t have survived five minutes in the world you’re trying to enter, but the weapon you’ve made yourself…” He pauses, letting his gaze travel over me with calculated assessment. “That has potential.”
“Potential for what?”
“Change. Disruption. Profit.” His smile turns predatory. “The current power structure in this city has been stable for five years. Stability breeds complacency, and complacency creates opportunities for those smart enough to exploit them.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him over the rim of my glass. “You want to use me to destabilize the balance of power.”
“I want to offer you the resources to destabilize it yourself. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“All the difference in the world. One makes you a pawn. The other makes you a player.” He sets his glass down with deliberate precision. “Which do you want to be?”
The offer hangs between us like bait on a hook, tempting and dangerous. “And what exactly are you offering?”
