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Not even a grimace. Almost as though he were immune to pain.

And while he refused to look at the word I’d carved into his skin, I did. Seven capital letters stared back at me.

TRAITOR.

I sat on the edge of his desk, hooked my feet around the armrests of his chair, and dragged Severin closer. Once his legs were beneath the desk, I planted my feet on either side of his thighs and glared down at him.

He never broke eye contact. “Why am I a traitor, Ghost?”

“Traitor, Lethe, Order member—they’re all the same, really.” My voice took on a singsong quality.

“Hmm.” He made the sound but offered nothing more.

Which might have driven me crazier than if he’d actually said something.

“You took my girl.”

“Yes.”

That was it. No explanation. Nothing.

“Where is she?” I snapped.

“I don’t really want to talk about her,” he said calmly, far too collected for a man tied to a chair.

“Well, I do,” I seethed. “Where is she?”

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. Because Severin had always loved being in control, even while kidnapped and tied to a chair. Even after I’d carved the word traitor into his fucking arm.

“Where is she?” I pressed the knife against his neck.

He laughed. Actually fucking laughed. “Better question: who are you?”

My nostrils flared. “I will kill you.”

“Will you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve killed hundreds of men.”

“Yes, I know. I watched you kill at least thirty to rescue Neeve.”

“So you know I am deadly.”

“Immensely. But the question I have is: why didn’t you kill any of the men to rescue Delilah?” he asked, looking unbearably smug.

Was that her name?

“All alive except the ones you killed to keep her safe and the one who tried to kill Nika. Curious, isn’t it?” He wiggled his brows. “Why would a revenge killer save a Russian mafia member?”

I swallowed.

“Huh?”

“It seemed fun at the time.”

“Sure it did.”

I pressed the blade harder into his neck, pricking the skin, and a bead of blood trickled down.