[Talia's POV]
We stepped out of the Spiders' lair, the heavy doors groaning shut behind us, sealing away the web of whispers and deals we'd just spun inside. Not long ago, we had walked in as nothing more than hunted rats, backs against the wall, scrambling for a foothold. Now, we left with an alliance—a pact with the second-strongest gang in the slums.
How the hell did Rowan pull that off?
He had controlled the conversation from the very first word, weaving his usual brand of smooth, calculated bullshit. That line about me folding those three brutes before they could blink? Maybe—if I only had to take one. And even then, it would be a big if. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he made them believe it.
Was this what Handy meant when he said we'd be dancing to Rowan's tune whether we liked it or not? Because now that I thought about it, I couldn't remember a single time Rowan hadn't gotten exactly what he wanted from us. Every plan, every scheme, every reckless move—we followed, and somehow, he always came out on top.
Did it bother me? Maybe it should have. Maybe, if I stopped to pick at the thought long enough, I'd find something unsettling underneath. But instead, I shoved it aside. It didn't matter. Not like I was against it from the start.
For once, I wasn't just sitting on the sidelines, waiting for Rowan to hand out orders like scraps from a table. No, this time, I was in. I had been there, heard the plan firsthand, felt the weight of my own presence in that room. Rowan was finally acknowledging me—not just as a follower, but as someone who had a role to play.
I glanced at him as we walked, my mind still turning over everything we had discussed. "What happens now?" I asked, my voice steady but laced with curiosity.
Rowan and Handy turned in sync, like two pieces of the same machine. "Now?" Rowan echoed, arching a brow. "Didn't you listen at the meeting? Next, we stir the pot… by snatching up the son of a higher-up."
I blinked. That was it? No elaborate setup, no intricate layers to peel back? Just a straight-up kidnapping? For some reason, I had expected more—some grand twist, some clever maneuver that would flip the board entirely.
"So that's it? No big scheme? No giant, earth-shattering 'fuck you' to someone?" I asked, half-joking, half-disappointed.
Rowan met my gaze, holding it for a beat before his lips curved into a smirk. "Nah," he said, voice smooth and measured. "Too soon for that."
Too soon. Meaning there would be a moment for it. Just not yet.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to swallow the frustration bubbling inside me. How the hell did Rowan keep his composure through all of this? It had taken everything in me not to snap back at that smug, venom-laced woman who had spoken like I was invisible, like I didn't even matter.
But Rowan… he had sat there, unwavering, absorbing every insult, every slight, as if they were nothing more than passing gusts of wind.
And maybe that was the difference between us. He could endure. He had already decided how much he was willing to lose.
Me? Every day, I kept asking myself if it was worth it. If this endless chase for revenge was worth the blood we had already spilled. Cade was dead. A guy I had know for two days, who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, And with the scale of this fight growing larger by the day, I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that he wouldn't be the last one we lost.
At the start, nothing could have pulled me away from my revenge against the Veyra household. But now? Now, with every sacrifice Rowan made, with every piece of himself he carved away for the sake of vengeance, my certainty wavered. I could feel the cracks forming, the doubt creeping in like a shadow at the edges of my mind.
But I had to keep going. For them... My parents, but would they've really wanted it?
We moved through the streets in silence, the street lamps casting long, restless shadows across our path. My eyes kept drifting toward Rowan. The man who had dragged us through hell and back.
The man whose will refused to break, even as the weight of everything threatened to crush him. The man who would walk straight into the jaws of a beast if it meant bringing his enemies down with him.
And the man whose resolve, no matter how strong, made me wonder just how much more he had left to lose.
My eyes lingered on him a moment too long, tracing the sharp angles of his face, the way the dim city light caught in his eyes. It was just observation, I told myself. Just admiration. But when his gaze flicked to mine, sharp and knowing, I felt the heat crawl up my neck.
Caught.
His lips curled slightly in amusement. "Is there something on my face?" His tone was casual, but I didn't miss the way Handy, walking beside us, gave a slow shake of his head.
"Nothing." The word came out quieter than I meant, lacking the usual bite. Not like me at all.
What the hell was wrong with me?
We fell into silence, our steps light, our senses stretching into the shadows around us. The slums had their own rhythm, their own unspoken rules—one of them being that if something felt off, it probably was. My skin prickled, a whisper of unease crawling down my spine. It wasn't paranoia.
It was instinct.
And then, in a voice barely above a breath, Handy muttered, "We're being followed."
I tensed, fingers curling slightly. So that's what had been bothering me. A presence just at the edge of awareness, watching, trailing.
Rowan didn't even break stride. "I know." His voice was unreadable, steady as always. "But I think it's good news. Turn right."
We did as he said, slipping into the next alley. The moment our feet met the uneven pavement, we stopped. I glanced at him, waiting. Was this really good news, or was this the kind of 'good' that ended with blood staining the dirt?
A few seconds passed, then a small figure rounded the corner behind us. A kid. Couldn't have been older than thirteen, wrapped in patched-up rags, bare feet kicking up dust as he skidded to a stop.
For a brief second, his wide eyes betrayed surprise, like he hadn't expected us to confront him so quickly. But just as fast, he masked it, straightening his shoulders and holding his ground.
Who the hell was this?
Then, in a voice too composed for someone his age, he spoke. "Mister Viper, we found him." His small hand lifted, holding out a scrap of folded paper. "It's all here. Written by Quill himself. No need to worry."
Rowan took the note without hesitation, his expression unreadable as his eyes scanned the words. After a beat, he nodded, lips curling slightly. "Good job. That's it for you tonight."
The kid barely waited for confirmation before nodding back and darting off, vanishing into the maze of alleyways like a ghost.
I blinked, my mind struggling to piece together what just happened. "What the fuck was that?"
"Rowan… something you ain't telling us?" I asked, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice like venom.
He barely reacted, just furrowed his brow for a second before flashing that smirk—the one that usually meant he knew something we didn't.
"This," he said, waving the crumpled scrap of paper between his fingers, "is something that will help me bury the Angels six feet under."
I narrowed my eyes. "That so?"
He didn't elaborate. And no matter how many times I pressed him on the rest of the walk, all I got were vague, teasing answers—half-truths wrapped in smirks, spoken in that infuriatingly confident way of his. This fucker.
Eventually, we stopped trying. The three of us fell into silence, letting the city fill in the gaps. The slums had a way of speaking when you shut up long enough to listen—the distant wail of some poor bastard being dragged into an alley, the drunken shouts from a dice game gone south, the rustling of unseen eyes watching from darkened doorways.
By the time we reached our destination, I could feel the tension still buzzing in my bones, the exhaustion that came with always being on the move. This was our new hideout. For now, at least. When you were hunted like we were, staying in one place too long was asking for a knife between the ribs.
The building itself wasn't much to look at—just another forgotten structure swallowed by the decay of the slums. The kind of place no one would spare a second glance. But below it, the basement was a different story. Bigger than the ground floor suggested, with enough space to stash supplies and keep a low profile.
Still, it wasn't home. Not like our original hideout had been.
I hadn't realized how much I'd grown attached to that place until we lost it. The walls covered in scraps of plans, the lingering scent of cheap booze and burnt-out candles, the way it had felt like ours. But we couldn't afford sentimentality. Not now.
Rowan didn't hesitate as he stepped inside, already moving like he belonged there. Like this was just another step in his plan.
And maybe it was.
Maybe this was just the beginning.