The matte black barrel of the submachine gun was custom-milled, perfectly balanced, and completely devoid of a safety catch.
Jane noted this with the same distant, sterile curiosity she used to memorize seating charts for pack galas. Her pulse didn't spike. Her lungs didn't seize. The extreme pressure crashed over her, and right on cue, her mind detached, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching the three of them in the flashing red emergency lights.
Her father was going to kill her.
It was a practical business decision. She had ruined her political value by sleeping with the feral Sovereign, so Arthur Sterling was simply liquidating a bad asset.
"You were pristine," Arthur said. His voice echoed down the marble hallway, carrying a note of genuine disappointment. He adjusted his g
