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Full rites. The ones reserved for members of BRN who die in good standing. The body is stripped, washed in sacred oils by the Shadows, every mark and scar documented and honored. Blood is let from the heart so the soul can be properly released. Then, together, the Shadows perform the final ritual–opening the veil so the dead can pass through cleanly, without becoming lost between worlds. The body is then sent to the cemetery, assigned to a crypt where they’re laid to rest with their brothers.

He considers it for a moment, because he may be a fucking traitor, but deep down there’s something that binds him to BRN. But that moment is fleeting before he laughs again—wet, choking sounds bubbling through the blood filling his mouth. “She’s already gone, Hunter. Just like your precious Baroness is. The Guardian broke her open and put something else inside. These girls don’t come back the same–they were chosen for a reason. They’re better off dead.”

The scalpel flashes again. This time I go for the soft meat of his shoulder. I drive the blade in deep, twist it, then drag it outward in a long slice toward the pentagram tattoo inked into his bicep. His skin, ink included, peels back like paper. Mateo groans, deep in his chest, the pain excruciating. Now he knows what Kelsey felt like before they shoved those bugs in her mouth. Or Laura before they left her by the creek. Arianette when–

Fuck.

The muscle glistens underneath, pale and twitching. Blood pours down his arm in heavy sheets, soaking the waistband of his pants and dripping off the chair into the drain with a steady pat-pat-pat that matches my heartbeat.

My hand is shaking. Not from fear—from rage so pure it feels like my bones are vibrating. Every drop of blood is a reminder of his betrayals. Of Arianette’s face in that tunnel. Of the King lifeless on the hospital bed. Of every lie I ever believed about the men I called brothers.

I drop the scalpel and grab the hammer.

I bring it down on the back of his left hand, the one strapped to the arm. The first strike shatters two knuckles with a flat, meaty crunch. He howls. The second strike takes the middle finger at the joint; the bone splinters, and the finger flops sideways at a sick angle. Blood sprays in tiny arcs with every impact. I keep going—three, four, five blows—until the hand is a ruined, pulped mess of bone shards and shredded skin.

“Talk,” I snarl, voice cracking. “Or I start taking more pieces you’ll never grow back.”

Mateo’s head lolls. Blood and spit string from his lips. His one good eye is glassy, but that fucking smirk is still clinging to the corner of his mouth. “You’re already too late… the season’s turning, soon the darkness will transcend, and you’ll all regret not following…”

“The only thing I’ll regret is not killing you sooner.” I raise the hammer again, this time aiming for his kneecap. The world is narrowing to a white-hot tunnel. My pulse thunders in my ears. I can feel the last thread of control slipping through my fingers like wet rope. One more strike and I’ll cave his skull in. I know it. He knows it. And part of me—most of me—doesn’t give a shit. Let the answers die with him. Let the whole rotten thing burn.

The hammer is already swinging when⁠—

“That’s enough,” The voice is tinny–far away. “He’s no use to us if he’s dead.”

I blink.

Once.

Twice, then the room snaps back into focus in pieces—the light, too bright.

The sound of my own breathing is unnaturally loud.

The feel of his skin under my hand.

The door opens behind me, the sound heavy and final, and then there’s a dark hand on my wrist that’s solid and unyielding.

Pace Ashby.

His grip tightens just enough to force the weapon down, not ripping it from me, just… stopping me, grounding me.

“Not today,” he says, low in my ear.

My jaw clenches, teeth grinding as the adrenaline has nowhere to go, nowhere to burn off except inside my own body. My chest rises, then falls–once, twice–before I can get a handle on it.

Before I can pull myself back.

I nod.

“Fine,” I mutter, though there’s nothing fine about it, my eyes locking back onto Mateo. He’s still smiling through the blood and pain–unafraid. “Not today.” I lean in close again, my voice dropping, quieter now but no less sharp. “But soon.”

Lex Ashby passes me on his way into the room, a medical kit in his hands.

“Is he seriously going to patch him up?” I ask, taking the towel Whitaker offers me and wiping Mateo’s blood from my skin.

“Eh. He’ll check his vitals,” Whitaker says with a shrug. “Make sure he doesn’t die before we’re ready.”

I don’t bother asking about the whole do no harm thing, considering Lex is in medical school. I’m pretty sure those rules don’t apply in the dungeon.