21 — Widow

The door didn’t creak.

It sagged—bent and battered by force, barely holding to the frame. Rain hissed through shattered windows, striking scorched concrete like impatient fingers.

Gas lingered. So did the copper tang of blood.

The woman stepped inside.

No hesitation.

No caution.

She walked in as if violence had learned to make way for her.

Her coat was black, soaked to the bone, clinging to muscle and intent. Hair pinned high, streaked silver—not age, but proof of surviving every fight she ever picked. Command rolled off her—undeniable, cold, the kind that bent men without asking.

The Widow.

The room tightened.

Talia froze, breath locked. Heller pressed against the wall, a man awaiting judgment. Even the chaos outside—the boots, the shouting—faded for her.

Domenik didn’t move.

But every muscle was tight, coiled for violence, ready to claim or destroy.

The Widow’s eyes swept the room, passing over him without acknowledgment—going straight to Eirwen. Not the guns, not the blood. Her.

“Hello,” the Widow said, voice calm as a blade. “Little ghost.”

Eirwen’s chest knotted. “You’re dead.” She hated how thin it sounded.

The Widow smiled—small, sharp. “That rumor’s served me well.”

Domenik stepped forward, smooth as a threat, putting his body between Eirwen and the danger—territorial, uncompromising.

“She stays with me.”

The Widow’s eyes flicked to him at last, cool and unbothered.

“Does she? Or is this just proximity you’re mistaking for possession?”

The air sharpened.

Domenik didn’t yield an inch, didn’t look back at Eirwen—he held the line, every inch of him authority.

Eirwen stayed behind him. Present. Watchful. But the line was drawn by him, not her.

The Widow studied her, not sentimental but coldly curious, as if sizing up a weapon she once owned.

“You’ve made yourself busy,” the Widow said. “Breaking old patterns. Forcing hands.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Eirwen bit out.

“No,” the Widow agreed. “But you were trained to survive it.”

Eirwen’s jaw tightened. “Trained how?”

The Widow stepped closer, voice dropping—never touching, but close enough to remind Eirwen what it feels like to be measured and found wanting. “You learned how to endure power, how to stand close to danger and not be burned.” Her gaze slid deliberately to Domenik. “That wasn’t an accident.”

Domenik cut in, voice lethal. “Say what you came to say.”

The Widow faced him, her expression hardening, command meeting command.

“You were always impatient when you felt a threat.”

He didn’t flinch. “And you always talked too much when you wanted control.”

She smiled, slow and surgical.

“I didn’t come to take her,” she said. “I came to see if you already had.”

Eirwen tensed.

Domenik’s jaw set—unyielding, steady. “You don’t get to write the story.”

“Oh, but I do,” the Widow said, turning her focus back to Eirwen. “Because you’re exactly where I expected.”

She pulled something from her coat—a flat, worn piece of metal. Turned it in the light: two lions, one crowned, one broken.

Eirwen’s breath caught. “That was my father’s.”

“It was your family’s, long before it was anyone’s,” the Widow said. “Not inheritance. Not destiny. Leverage.”

Domenik’s voice dropped, cold and final. “Put it away.”

The Widow smiled. “Or what? You’ll kill me, here, in front of her?”

His silence was answer enough. There was no bluff in him.

The Widow looked satisfied, almost fond. “You see?” she said to Eirwen. “He knows what you’re worth. He just won’t say it out loud.”

Eirwen braced herself. “What do you want?”

The Widow’s tone went soft, but it was all strategy, no warmth.

“To see if you understand where you stand. To see if you know the price of proximity. People will die for getting too close to you, not because you’re weak, but because you matter.”

Eirwen swallowed hard.

The Widow’s smile didn’t soften. “I think you’re just beginning to understand what that means.”

Boots thundered below. Orders barked. The building shook with another breach.

The Widow glanced toward the chaos, undisturbed.

“They’re coming. Not to kill, but to contain you.” Her eyes slid to Domenik. “And to see just how far your king will go to keep you.”

Domenik moved—closer, never touching, but every inch of him a barrier.

“She’s not leaving with you.”

The Widow tilted her head. “I never asked her to.”

She leaned in, low enough for only Eirwen to hear:

“Find me when you’re tired of letting men decide your price.”

Then, louder, almost bored:

“Run.”

A crack split the stairwell. Gas hissed again.

The Widow turned and was gone—slipping into the storm, a ghost made real by reputation alone.

Chaos crashed back in. Boots. Orders. Guns primed for war.

Domenik stepped in front of Eirwen, an unyielding shield. She caught his sleeve, grounding herself.

He looked down at her, voice steady and cold.

“She’s alive.”

“I know,” he said, gaze unshakable.

“She wants something from me.”

“Yes.”

She searched him—her anchor, her cage. “And you?”

His jaw flexed, voice a vow:

“I want you alive. And I don’t share what’s mine.”

Not romance.

Promise.

Possession.

Outside, the city roared—inside, the lines were drawn in blood and bone.

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Next: 22 — Fault