You don’t wash the blood off when you’re about to crash your own funeral.
You let it dry. You let it turn brown and stiff on the torn edges of your silk dress, because the elite of the Thorne Pack need to smell exactly what they tried to bury.
Michael stared at her. A slow, terrifying smile touched the corner of his mouth. He didn't argue. He didn't tell her it was a political risk. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, and carefully wiped a smear of black grease from her cheekbone. The contrast of his gentle touch against the violence of the metal warehouse was jarring.
"The freight tunnels," Michael said, his voice a low gravel drag. "They run beneath the fighting pits. It will take us straight up to the ballroom service doors. No checkpoints."
"Good."
