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“What happens when the masks come off?”

Dante answers.

“Morning becomes considerably more complicated.”

Sloane turns toward him.

“Are you ugly?”

“Heartbreakingly.”

“Maybe keep yours on.”

He grips his chest as if wounded. I bring her attention back to me.

“The masks remain until the hunt ends.”

Sloane lifts her ribboned wrist.

“Then Callum should remove this.”

“No,” he says.

The single word shakes dust from the rafters. Sloane’s mouth curves.

“Possessive bastard.”

Callum steps closer.

“You have no idea.”

I place one hand between them.

“Later.”

His stare promises violence. Not toward Sloane. Never toward her. I remove my black coat and spread it across the altar. My shirt follows. Sloane watches every movement. Her gaze travels over my chest, stomach, and the scars along my ribs. She steps closer.

“May I?”

The question surprises me. I nod. Her fingertips trace one of the older scars.

“Your father?”

My entire body stills. She remembers. My history was included among the information exchanged before the hunt—not every detail, but enough for her to understand who she trusted.

“Yes.”

Sloane lowers her mouth and kisses the scar. The tenderness strikes harder than any submission could. Then she looks up at my mask.

“No one gets to hurt you tonight either.”

Silence fills the chapel. Dante looks away. Callum’s posture changes. Sloane sees too much. I slide my hand into her hair.

“On your knees.”

Her lips part. There is the hunger I understand. She lowers herself slowly. Dante exhales behind her. Callum doesn’t seem to breathe. Sloane kneels before the Reaper, naked except for another man’s ribbon. Every rule I have ever created begins to feel dangerously fragile.

SLOANE