Page 2 of Prisoner of Steel and Shadow

Ronan didn’t botherwith the matte black armor he’d commissioned specially for these nightly escapades. Tonight’s mission was about stealth, and he wanted nothing that would give him away.

Just because he didn’t expect to live long enough to see the sunrise didn’t mean he was planning on rolling over and making it easy. He’d always known he’d go out in battle. Such was the way for a warrior born and bred like him. His final battlefield just looked a little different than he’d envisioned.

But if death was coming for him, he was damn well taking Nightshade out with him. Consider it a parting gift. One final act of heroism.

That had to count for something.

With that sunny thought in mind, he strapped every possible weapon to his body. As always, his Fire would be his greatest asset, but the Butcher didn’t use anything that could be traced back to the Shield. Especially his Mother-gifted magic.

He’d gone this long without anyone connecting him to his alter ego, and he intended to take the secret to the grave. It was the least he could do for the woman he considered a sister. He made a vow to protect her with his life, and hewouldprotect Helena’s legacy, even in death. It was his duty as her Shield. Though after tonight, the title would no longer be his.

Ronan did a final sweep of his one-room safe house to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. He’d purchased the sorry excuse of a house under a false name, selecting it for its isolation and placement on the outskirts of the city. The shanty was hardly fit for inhabitants; even the furry critters nesting in the walls deserved far better. Considering how often he found himself here, the realization should have been depressing, but since it was little more than a glorified armory, it suited his purposes just fine.

Given the location and lack of security system, he was actually surprised he’d gone this long without being robbed. Perhaps even the most desperate thief didn’t believe there to be anything of value in the dilapidated dwelling. There was likely a metaphor there if he cared to think on it. Something about the broken man whose ramshackle house mirrored the barren state of his soul.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed at the maudlin and wholly uncharacteristic thought. What a pitiful wretch he’d become. He hadn’t waxed poetic like that in years. Had his current and former selves found themselves face-to-face, the old Ronan would have laughed at the pathetic sack of shit staring back at him. Right before punching the bloody daylights out of him and tossing his sorry arse outside to sleep off the black mood.

He missed old Ronan.

In a hurry to distance himself from the tragedy of his thoughts, he turned to leave, freezing when a flash of silver on the crumbling stone mantle caught his eye. His heart lurched in panic.

Ronan, you rutting bastard. Don’t get careless now. You have one last job to finish.

Stumbling in his haste, he half fell, half ran over to it. Ignoring the burst of pain as his ribs connected with the stone, he cradled the dagger in his calloused palm. He couldn’t believe he’d almost left it behind.

Far more ornate than anything he’d choose for himself, the weapon had become his most prized possession. It belonged to Reyna, the elaborate swirls she used to paint on her face etched into its hilt. Now, it was all he had left of her.

How fitting it would be with him tonight.

Recalling the day he acquired it, Ronan let out a harsh exhale that might have been a laugh were he anyone else.

Reyna hadn’t gifted it to him. Far from it. The assassin queen had practically buried it in his throat, hurling the blade before he could finish whatever silky insult he’d been uttering. She hadn’t spoken a word, though her message had been received loud and clear as the wickedly sharp metal trembled a mere hairsbreadth away from his neck: treadverycarefully.

Though the warning didn’t have the effect she’d anticipated. Instead of being cowed, he’d been painfully aroused. But that had always been the nature of their relationship. A careful dance of danger and seduction.

Pressing his lips to the cool blade, he breathed, “Save me a seat, killer. I’m on my way.”

Palming the dagger, Ronan left the safe house without a backward glance.

Less than an hour later, he dropped into the sewers considering the fifty gold he’d parted with money well spent as he made his way to Lukas’s hideout. Just because the man had managed not to be gutted in his sleep didn’t mean no one knew his whereabouts. Business wouldn’t be nearly as lucrative for him if that was the case. After a few strategic inquiries, greased palms, and just as many untimely deaths later—to cover his tracks, of course, no need to be sloppy—Ronan possessed the Bargainer’s most recent address.

Anticipation ignited in his veins, suffusing him with dark pleasure. Or as close to pleasure as he was capable these days. This was the part he’d always loved. When a chase neared the end and success was finally within reach.

Ironically, this was the most alive he’d felt in weeks. Perhaps longer.

Not lingering to dwell on it, Ronan ducked his head and followed the serpentine tunnels until they circled back up and he approached the remains of the original city. Instead of leveling the prior iteration, the Chosen had simply built on top of it, meaning that there was an entire network of forgotten chambers and crumbling passageways right beneath their feet. The fact that these ruins were situated between the city and the sewer, well... what better place was there for filth to hide?

The low murmur of voices reached him, and Ronan allowed himself a curl of his lips so filled with malice it couldn’t be misinterpreted as anything other than the promise of violence.

Keeping his steps slow and unhurried, he pulled down his mask. The black leather would keep all but the bottom half of his face concealed, and he’d already dealt with the beard that would have given him away. Confident in his anonymity, he began to whistle, the haunting melody bouncing off the walls and creating an eerie echo.

The voices fell silent for a beat, and then there was a whispered, “Oi, wot’s that?”

“Dinner,” a second, meaner voice replied.

Ronan dropped all pretense as he turned the corner and spotted two men guarding a door. “Well then, lads, come and get it.”

They rushed him, but he was ready, sweeping the legs out from the first man and knocking him flat on his back while gutting the second. By the time the first thug recovered, Ronan had already wiped Reyna’s blade clean and was right there to drive the deadly metal into his windpipe.

---