CHAPTER 5

Timothy leaned into the grime of the brick alleyway, his lungs working like bellows. He’d seen plenty of transactional filth in Saati Town—desperate hacks, cold-blooded kills, and street-level hookers—but this was different. This was raw. It was high-stakes.

The man on the balcony, Kan Nelblack, didn't just have the eyes of a predator; he had the focus of a sniper. Kan turned his head, silver-grey eyes cutting through the darkness of the street to the exact shadow where Timothy stood. The man didn’t flinch. He didn't call for the Enforcers. He just swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, blew a mocking kiss, and then clamped his hand on the back of Gideon’s head, forcing the shifter deeper onto his length.

Timothy tried to swallow, but his throat had turned to sandpaper. Air felt like lead in his chest. Eleanor Nash was back at the rebellion headquarters counting on him to find the leak, and here he was, rooted to the spot, watching two high-level Blackwell associates claim each other in front of a cheering crowd of drunks.

The dark-haired man on the balcony mouthed two words: Stay. Watch.

Timothy’s retreat died in his throat. A sharp, jagged gasp escaped him.

Kan’s mouth was parted, his breath coming in visible, raspy puffs in the humid air. He drove his hips forward, burying himself in Gideon’s mouth with a guttural groan that vibrated even across the distance of the street. His head tilted back, neck muscles cording, eyes never once leaving the spot where Timothy was hidden. It wasn't just sex; it was a beckoning. An invitation into a web of violence and intimacy that Timothy hadn't known existed.

A strange, pulsing heat centered between Timothy’s thighs. He’d never been the type to lose control. He was a ghost. A machine for the Nash Rebellion. But as he stood there, his hand moved instinctively, sliding into the waistband of his tactical pants.

Wet.

He bit his lip until he tasted copper. He watched as Gideon’s body shuddered, a low, animal purr—a sound no human should be able to make—rippling through the air. Kan came hard, his entire frame vibrating against the iron railing, eyes still locked onto Timothy’s.

It was a claim. They weren't just showing off; they were marking the air around him.

The men broke apart to a roar of applause from the street below. Timothy collapsed back against the cold brick, his knees shaking so hard he thought he’d hit the pavement. He took his hand away, looking at the moisture on his fingers. He spread it across his lips, the taste of his own arousal a shock to his system.

He had spent his life convinced he was a broken tool. A loner. In the rebellion, you didn't mate for life; you survived for the day. But the way those two looked at each other—the absolute, bone-deep certainty of their bond—made Timothy’s heart ache with a hollow, bitter envy.

"Holy hell," he whispered, his voice a ghost of a sound.

What would they taste like? The thought was a landmine. If he let himself get close to men like that—Blackwell’s elite—he was dead. Or worse, he was theirs. He had a mission. Marcus Neol was still out there, and the rebellion was bleeding.

On the balcony, Kan leaned over the railing, his silver eyes like twin beacons. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked at the shadows. He crooked a finger, a slow, deliberate command to come to them.

Timothy shook his head. He couldn't.

Gideon pulled away from Kan, his hands white-knuckled on the railing as he scanned the street. "Where?"

"There. In the dark. Come here, little reaper," Kan called out, his voice carrying over the music and the shouts of the tourists.

Timothy didn't wait. He didn't have the "Siren" magic of the myths, but he had the training of a ghost. He turned and sprinted, weaving through the thick crowds of Bourbon Street, careful to stay behind the larger tourists so his silhouette wouldn't give him away. His legs felt like rubber, every step a struggle against the heavy, thrumming heat still lodged in his gut.

He made a sharp right, then a left, cutting through the narrow, smelling guts of the district until he reached the wharf. The river was dark, the water slapping against the wooden pilings with a rhythmic, mourning sound.

"Get out," Timothy snapped at a group of drunks huddled on a bench. They scrambled away, terrified by the cold, lethal edge in his voice. One of them muttered something about "shadow demons," but Timothy didn't care.

He collapsed onto the bench, staring out at the black water. The coolness of the river didn't touch the fire in his blood. This was a complication he couldn't afford. He had been handpicked by Eleanor Nash for his ability to remain detached. He was the security, the blade in the dark. Nobody wanted to be his friend; they were all too terrified of the way he could look at a man and decide exactly how to end him.

He had been fine with his hollow, friendless life until tonight. Until he’d seen that balcony.

How could he hunt a traitor when his own body was betraying him for the enemy? He twirled a lock of his dark hair, his mind racing. He needed more intel. He didn't even know which one of them was the primary threat—or the primary draw.

He exhaled, the mist of his breath vanishing into the humid night. He would finish the job for the Empress. He would find the leak. And then, and only then, would he decide what to do about the two predators who had just scented his soul.

The sound of a heavy footfall on the wood behind him made him freeze. No human moved that quietly. Timothy didn't turn. He reached for the knife at his belt.

"You've got a hell of a scent for someone who wants to be a ghost," a voice rumbled.