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Killian might not have my skill in hacking or intelligence, but he comes by information others would kill to obtain. I never figured out how.

“Don’t tell him,” I say, fixing my sweatshirt.

He laughs, the sound reminding me of soft smoke. “Me? No, that would ruin all the fun when he finds out.” Killian tugs on my collar, flicking the bangs out of my eyes. “Remember what I told you. If you’re truly in love, it’ll be the best pain you’ve ever experienced. And completely worth the agony. Is she worth it?”

Nodding, I say, “She is.” In every single way, Valentina is it. I don’t know how or why, but fate put me in her path. They gave me someone I shouldn’t want, someone who shouldn’t excite me, or test me, and they trusted me to love her. Someone so out of my league, and yet I would claw out of Hell to be with her.

We were meant to be. As assuredly as the stars hang overhead, as effortlessly as the sun rises in the east, Valentina is meant to be mine. There is no other option.

Exhaling, the Reaper licks his bottom lip. “Valentina might be different from her brother, but her last name is still Bruno. And with war on the horizon, I can’t promise this will work out. For either of you.”

War is the least of my concerns.

“You don’t have to worry about that.” I clap his shoulder. “I know the risks. It’s literally been the only thing on my mind. But I can’t help it. Just keep this between us. If Maeve finds out⁠—”

“She’ll kill you.” He shrugs. “Eventually, you’ll need to explain yourself, but for now, this is the only secret I’ll keep from her.”

Patting his chest, I say, “Aw, you big softie. Getting mushy on me now that you’re back on my sister’s good side.”

He swats me, but I laugh, jumping away. “Cover for me. I’m going to make a bad decision.”

Killian shoves his hands into his pockets, looking to the dark sky. “Of course you are.”

Running through the alley behind us, I keep the smile from spilling across my face. Killian gave me a gift—and I plan on using it. I cross over broken glass, and my boots stomp through puddles before I stop in front of Roman’s club.

My eyes land on the cameras at the corner and the two bouncers out front. I could take them—subdue them, get inside. I don’t want to kill⁠—

Not right now.

Slipping out my phone, I bring up my program and hunt for the club’s security network. It’s rudimentary—they really need a better IT guy—and I hack in, looping the feeds. Once I know I’m hidden, I slide along the back wall and keep my head down. A light summer rain trickles down, soaking my heavy bangs and my black sweatshirt. Not ideal, but I’ve handled worse.

At any rate, it’s not important. Only finding Valentina is.

Tugging on the back entrance, it doesn’t budge. There’s a scanner to the side, though, its pad dimmed.

“It’s like he wants me to break in,” I mutter, while pulling off the back cover. With one more glance over my shoulder, I yank out two wires—yellow and green. Crossing them, I hold my thumb over the screen, and it blinks white. The lock clicks and I smile.

“Still got it.”

Sliding through the door, I let it close softly behind me. Shadows cover me, but at the far end, a pink neon sign with an arrow points to the left.

Am I proud that I studied the layout of the Docks when I decided to poison Roman? Yes. Yes, I am. Because that moment of planning helps me navigate the bleak halls. The thumping of music pounds through the walls, body swaying back and forth, as if I were tethered to a line in space. It’s a sensory nightmare.

At the end is a door with a little plate: DRESSING.

To my left is the way to the stage.

My boots squeak. Rocking back on my heels, I glance down at the damp jeans and dripping hoodie. Someone is going to say shit if they see a drenched man stalking the back halls.

Dressing room first.

As soon as I open the door, three faces turn toward me: two white women and a Black woman. They are barely clothed, wearing silk robes with colored wigs. One woman goes back to her mirror, applying red lipstick, with a burnt B flashing on her shoulder.

Her branding. Bile churns in my gut, and I swallow it back down.

“Are you lost?” the closest woman asks. Her bright pink hair, cut into a short bob, glistens under the dim lighting. Bright scripts hang on the walls, but it’s basically a shadowed alcove.

“Lost?” Shit. What do I say? “Hey, I’m here to find the woman I’ve been slowly losing my mind and heart over?” No.