Page 44 of Shattered By Grace

Victoria straightened her spine, the cool bite of determination washing over her. “Okay,” she said, voice sharp. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them.”

Justin hesitated, eyes flickering like he was considering his options.

“There are no wrong answers,” she added. “Only lies. And if you lie to me, Iwillknow.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he gave a slow nod.

Here goes, she thought.

She didn’t wait for his response. “What’s the Grand Reaping?”

Justin inhaled sharply, his gaze darting toward the door, as if making sure no one was lurking outside. Then, he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before speaking.

“Vic, I?—”

She stiffened.Vic.“I don’t trust you,” she said flatly. “Not yet.”

His expression hardened, but something wounded flickered behind his eyes, like her doubt hit a nerve.

“Don’t make me ask again, Justin. What’s theGrand Reaping?”

When he spoke, his voice was lower.

“It’s not just an underground fight ring,” he said, his voice low. “It’s a test of loyalty. A way to settle debts.” His gaze darkened. “Each family, each operation, puts forth their best fighters. It’s a bracket system. They fight to the death until only one remains. If a fighter taps out…” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Her mind raced, drawing the only possible conclusion…death.

She listened, unblinking.

“But that’s just the distraction,” Justin continued. “The fights keep the crowd’s attention while the real business happens behind closed doors. Drug trades, trafficking deals, contracts being negotiated.” He shook his head. “It’s not just about bloodshed in the ring, Vic. It’s about power. Every fight, every deal, everydeath…it all feeds back into the Lockes’ empire.”

She had suspected it was bad. She hadn’t realized it wasthisbad.

“And Tristan?” she asked, stomach twisting. She wasn’t sure why his name was the first that left her lips, but she needed to know.

Justin’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “He’s Cassian’s best fighter—and his heir. The most lethal of them all. The empire will be passed down to him because he’s the oldest. Tyson is next best, just as dangerous but more focused on the business. He’s in charge of the books, contracts and anything that keeps the empire running,” he exhaled sharply. “They don’t just fight in the Grand Reaping. They control it.” “And you?” she asked, her voice like steel, fingers curling. “Where do you fit into all this? I don’t see the tattoos.”

Justin’s head snapped toward her, his expression torn between disbelief and suspicion, like she’d just punched him in the gut with her words.

She crossed her arms. “I know they get tattoos to show ranks. My father wrote about it, he had everything pinned on an evidence board in his office. He just never explained it to me.”

“These tattoos…” Justin’s voice dropped to a whisper, thick with regret, like speaking it aloud made the truth heavier. “They’re not just marks. They’re a binding contract. When you wear them, you swear allegiance… to everything. The Lockes. The deals. The blood.” He swallowed, his gaze distant. “Once you’ve got one, there’s no leaving. Not without consequences.”

Her pulse quickened, her gaze never leaving him. “No shit. Explain.”

He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck like it hurt to even talk about it. “The ink marks your place in the Reapers,” he muttered. His eyes were shadowed now, as if the weight of the tattoos bore down on him even in the silence. “The bodyguards wear the most visible tattoos. A black serpent coiled around a dagger, its fangs bared, ready to strike. The dagger’s hilt is engraved with an ‘L’.”

Her pulse jumped, but she masked it. “Tristan and Tyson don’t have that tattoo.”

Justin’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening. “No, they don’t. But the tally marks beside the dagger that matter most.” He shook his head, like even mentioning it disgusted him. “One means fresh blood. New recruits, still proving themselves. Two means they’ve seen the violence up close, done the work. But three or more?” His voice dropped, a hard edge to it. “That’s leadership. Killers. The ones who handle the dirtiest jobs without hesitation.”

He swallowed hard. “And then there’s Cassian’s personal guards. They bear the scythe, usually on the left forearm.” He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to blow the weight of the words out of his lungs, then pulled up his sleeve to reveal his bare skin. “Those men are ruthless.”

Her stomach twisted. “How are they picked for their section?”

“You’re tested,” Justin said, his voice rough. “Cassian will give you tasks to complete. Grueling, bloody tasks. If you survive them, you move up.” His eyes met hers then, raw and unguarded for a moment. “And if you don’t, well… you don’t live to tell about it.”

Her eyes drifted to his arms, searching for any hint of the tattoo he should have. But there was nothing.

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