Still straddling the man’s heavy frame, Walkyria could tell from his flushed face, labored breathing and something else that her performance had worked well enough. He was entertained, more than that, ensnared.

  But for a fleeting second, her focus wavered. Grey was taking too long. She had expected him to appear right after removing the man from sight.

  But he didn’t.

  Her attention snapped back when the man’s hand clamped hard around her wrist.

  “Aurora...”

  The whisper of the dead woman’s name made her flinch. His eyes, once glazed with pleasure, now turned dark, dense, almost frightening. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw her onto her back, pinning her wrists to the mattress.

  “Where’s your attention, Aurora?”

  His lips traced her neck again, moving lower toward her cleavage. Walkyria’s eyes darted to the door, caught between panic and calculation.

  Where the hell are you, damn it?!, she thought. At that point, she had little room left to stretch the act any further.

  And even if she wanted to, she might not have had the time.

  The man straightened slowly, their gazes locking for a single instant. Walkyria’s eyes widened as his grip shifted from her wrists to hover near her throat.

  Then he muttered, low and certain:

  “Walkyria... I knew you’d never be worthy of my son.”

  She didn’t have time to react.

  His hands shot to her neck, tightening with brutal force. Walkyria thrashed beneath him, but the man’s weight pressed harder against her, his fingers closing like iron around her throat.

  “What a delicious gift Barbara has given me...”

  He murmured it with a twisted smile spreading across his face.

  The world around her began to dim. Every second beneath his weight, every tightening of his grip, seemed to drain not only her air but her very life. Fear surged through her veins, raw, primal, and something inside her snapped awake: survival.

  She fought with feral desperation: kicking, clawing, shoving, grabbing anything within reach. In one frantic motion, she found space between his legs and struck him hard enough for him to release her, clutching himself in pain.

  In a surge of instinct, she pushed him off and stumbled to her feet, staggering in disarray, gasping as if relearning how to breathe. Then, spinning on her heel, she lunged back at him, shoving him down onto the bed.

  In one swift movement, she swung her legs over him, bracing her weight on his forearms.

  Though trembling, her fingers locked around his throat. Rage burned hot and liquid in her veins, her eyes glinting with pure hatred as she pressed down, feeling her strength build with every second, fed by panic and fury.

  “You bastard...” she hissed between clenched teeth, breathless but relentless— yet the violence of the motion didn’t relent. “You’re going to pay for every bit of the shit you pulled here!”

  Her fingers tightened, pressure building. Then everything seemed to freeze the moment she saw it.

  The man’s eyes rolling back, pupils blown wide, his body convulsing beneath her. A cold shiver crawled down her spine as she realized how close she was to ending him. And something inside Walkyria ignited: a flare of sheer panic.

  The world slowed. She saw what she was about to do. Every fiber of her body froze, rage dissolving into shock. Slowly, her grip loosened. Breath ragged, trembling, she backed away, unable to go on. The instinct that had saved her had morphed into horror at what she’d nearly become.

  Walkyria could barely breathe, her body heavy, her thoughts still blurred — now sharpened by panic. The man was there, gasping faintly upright now, fighting for every breath.

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  But something perverse was taking shape in his gaze.

  She caught the way his eyes flicked toward the small dresser beside the bed, where a bottle of champagne beaded with condensation. Their eyes met — just once — before each of them moved to follow their own intent.

  He was bigger than her.

  And stronger.

  The blow to Walkyria’s face spun her on her heel before she went down, nearly blacking out as she hit the floor. The thickset man followed through, grabbing the bottle by the neck and smashing it hard enough to shatter against the dresser.

  “You’ve lost your only chance, Walkyria,” he snarled, his voice raw with contempt. “And I’ve already lost the pleasure of dragging this out.”

  But he didn’t have time to go any further.

  The door burst open with a sharp crack. Grey stepped inside, steady, silent, and for a brief instant, time stopped. His eyes swept the room in a fraction of a second, just long enough to understand everything. Position. Distance. Risk.

  Then his gaze locked onto the man, precise and cold, like someone calibrating an invisible target.

  His brow drew tight, hard. But there was no outburst, no loss of control. There was a mission here. And he would end it with the same impersonal precision he always did.

  For a split second, he allowed himself to consider another way to eliminate the target. Something slower. More… personal. The thought died before it could fully take shape. With a minimal gesture — almost imperceptible — something coursed through his fingers, and the man’s body jolted.

  He went rigid, suspended in an unnatural state.

  Walkyria, still dazed from the impact of the blow, braced herself as best she could against the floor when her eyes locked onto him.

  The man’s body jerked, as if the connection between flesh and mind had been severed. His gaze emptied, muscles faltering, and within seconds, he collapsed. No scream, no breath. Just the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

  Grey didn’t move.

  His face was expressionless, calm, like someone snuffing out a candle. No effort, no hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of a man who could shut down a life as easily as breathing.

  Then his attention turned to Walkyria.

  The impact of the punch still throbbed across her face, a dull heat spreading in uneven waves. For a few seconds, she only breathed. There was no clear thought, just the vague, almost unreal realization that the weight in the air had changed. That something had finally stopped.

  Grey approached without haste.

  He crouched in front of her, his movements deliberately slow, as if afraid of breaking something too fragile. He didn’t touch her right away. First, he assessed the swelling already forming. The discoloration of her skin. The marks along her neck.

  When he finally reached out, it was with almost reverent care.

  His fingers settled at her jaw, firm enough to support her, gentle enough to impose nothing. He tilted her face slightly toward the light, his eyes attentive, meticulous.

  “Look at me,” he said quietly. It wasn’t an order. It was an anchored invitation.

  She obeyed without realizing it.

  For a moment, all Walkyria could see was him. The solid presence. The icy blue of his eyes carried a focus and a care she wasn’t used to receiving. Her breath caught when Grey brushed his fingers delicately over the marked skin of her neck, as if trying to erase the traces through sheer will alone.

  His gaze settled on her again with restrained intensity, tracking every uneven breath, every lingering trace of fresh shock. His presence was both a shield and a warning: the worst was over… but the weight of what had nearly happened still saturated the air.

  She simply stared at him, hair disheveled, sweat trailing down her face in slow drops. Breathing came with difficulty as she tried to gather the fragments of herself that trembled somewhere between terror and relief, while the shadow of what had almost consumed her still hovered over her shoulders.

  Then her eyes welled up and widened in shock, as if the reality of the situation were finally catching up to her. Her voice came out low, rough, raw:

  “Why took you so long?!” she rasped. “He almost killed me!”

  He didn’t answer. Only held her gaze.

  There was something in his eyes that made her want to look away. The silence between them was broken only by her uneven breathing. Instinctively, she touched her neck, as if still feeling his hands there.

  She didn’t move when Grey get closer to her. Her body was rigid, eyes fixed on nothing, breath still uneven. The shock ran deep and quiet, filling every inch of the room.

  When his arms came around her, her first reaction was violent. She fought him pushing, hitting, desperate to break free, but he held her, steady, unyielding, without force or anger. Every shove met only presence, not resistance.

  Time blurred. Slowly, her fight began to fade. The violent motions softened, until only trembling remained. Tears began to fall, silent, salt on her lips. Her breathing still hitched, but gradually began to sync with the calm rhythm of his chest.

  “You... you took too long...” she murmured, voice faint, breaking.

  “I know.” Grey tilted his head, resting it lightly against hers. His fingers brushed through her hair gentle, firm, grounding. “I failed you in that. Deeply. Forgive me, Walkyria.”

  She didn’t answer. Her body still trembled, heart racing, but bit by bit she yielded to the warmth of his hold. First her shoulders, then her arms, until her breathing aligned with his, slow, steady, deliberate. There was something there, a strange peace she hadn’t felt in years.

  Without realizing it, she let herself rest against him. The weight in her muscles didn’t vanish, but for the first time, there was breath. A pause amid the chaos.

  She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to face the irony she might find in his cold gaze. She preferred the darkness behind her eyelids, the warmth of his body, the steady sound of his breathing, all that remained real.

  Her voice broke the silence then, soft and worn, barely above a whisper:

  “Did I pass the test?”

  He chuckled a low, brief sound, the vibration resonating through his chest against her.

  “With distinction.” The pause carried weight. “Welcome to the Order, Walkyria.”

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