Raven stepped out of the armored car into the mansion’s underground garage. The engine ticked cool behind her, still hot from the drive. Vincent followed a half-step behind. Close enough his sleeve brushed her arm. Far enough he left the silence alone.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

The corridor to the main level stretched long and dim. Her boots hit marble with that faint gritty scrape from the Council chamber still stuck to the soles. Alessandro’s voice clung to her skin like smoke—asset, property, finest weapon. The words crawled under her collar and made her neck tight.

She kept walking anyway. The question behind her ribs pressed warmer now, less like an old wound and more like something putting down roots she hadn’t asked for but wasn’t ripping out either.

Vincent peeled off toward the war room without a word. She felt his absence. Sudden drop in temperature. She kept moving.

The training yard waited under the mansion. Same polished steel smell of old blood and sweat that had lived in these walls since the first time she stepped onto the mats. She stripped her jacket, rolled her shoulders once, and walked straight to the heavy dummy in the center. No warm-up. No gloves. Just raw.

She hit it.

Fist slammed into the padded torso. Impact jarred straight up her arm and into her shoulder. She hit it again. Harder. The dummy rocked back on its chains. Elbow next. Then knee. Then another fist. Skin split across her knuckles on the third strike. Warm blood slicked her fingers fast. She didn’t stop. Each blow carried the full weight of that obsidian table—Caruso’s flat entitlement, the Widowmaker’s hate boring into her, every boss staring like she was still something to be claimed or thrown away.

Sweat stung the fresh cuts. Her breath came short and ragged. The hollow behind her ribs widened with every strike, but the ache only changed shape. She drove her fist into the dummy’s side again. Padding gave. Knuckles tore wider. Blood smeared dark across the fabric. She welcomed the burn. It was clean. Simple. Nothing like the circling words in that chamber.

Vincent appeared at the edge of the mats.

She felt him before she saw him. Air shifted. Yard suddenly felt smaller, tighter. He didn’t speak. Just leaned against the far wall, arms loose at his sides, and watched. Dark eyes steady. No command. No judgment. Just him standing there while she bled all over the mats.

Raven stopped. Chest heaving. Blood dripped slow and steady from her knuckles onto the floor. She wiped the back of her hand across her thigh and left a long dark streak on the black fabric. Her pulse hammered loud in her ears.

"You knew." Her voice came out flat. "About the mission. You knew they wanted me dead."

"Yes."

The single word dropped between them like a blade laid handle-first on the mat.

"And you married me anyway."

"Yes."

Raven’s jaw locked so hard her teeth ached. The cut on her knuckles pulled tight when she flexed her fingers. Fresh blood trickled warm down her wrist. She stared at the dummy, at the red smears she’d left across its torso, at the way the overhead lights caught on the wet streaks.

"You used me. Just like they did."

Vincent pushed off the wall. Three measured steps across the mats. Stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough she felt the heat rolling off him. Far enough the next move still belonged to her.

"I used the situation," he said. Voice low. Even. Never raised. "I didn’t use you."

"What’s the difference?"

The question scraped raw out of her throat. She tasted sweat and the faint metallic edge of her own blood on the air.

Vincent’s gaze held hers. Dark. Steady. The scar on his temple caught the light for half a second before it slid back into shadow.

"I didn’t throw you away when you stopped being useful."

The words landed heavier than any punch she’d thrown. They slammed straight into her chest and pressed against the old hollow places until they ached in a way that felt less like anger and more like the slow, terrifying admission that he was right.

Caruso had signed her death order before she even left for the hit. Discarded her the second the mission went south. Vincent had known. He’d known exactly what she was walking into and he’d married her anyway. He’d given her back the knife. Left her door unlocked. Waited every single time she tried to kill him and turned every attempt into something she still couldn’t name. He’d kept her. Even when she was useless. Even when she was dangerous. Even when she was trying to put steel between his ribs.

She hated that he was right.

The hate sat hot and tight behind her sternum, but it didn’t burn the way it used to. It only pressed. Reminded her that the man standing in front of her had never once thrown her away.

Raven looked down at her hands. Blood welled slow and steady from the torn knuckles. She flexed them once. The sting sharpened sharp enough to make her eyes water. Good. It kept her anchored right here on the mat, right here in this moment, instead of spiraling.

Vincent didn’t reach for her. Didn’t offer comfort or orders or anything that would feel like pity. He simply stayed where he was, the same way he’d stayed when she woke up in his bed this morning and the same way he’d stayed in the study the night before. Present. Waiting. Letting the next move belong to her.

She didn’t walk away.

She stayed in the yard.

He stayed with her.

The dummy rocked gently behind her on its chains, faint creak mixing with the slow drip of her blood onto the mat. Overhead lights hummed. The city far above kept moving, unaware that the war had already slipped the leash of Council chambers and supply depots and was now standing here between the two of them in the quiet.

Raven flexed her bleeding hands again. Pain stayed clean. Simple.

She didn’t know whose she was. Not yet.

But she knew whose she wasn’t.

And the man who had never thrown her away was still standing right in front of her, waiting for whatever the hell she decided next.