"Unlock the door, Mara, or I break it off its hinges."
The voice hit the workshop before the pounding did.
I grabbed the nearest tool and backed away from the iron table. A narrow vow-knife flashed between my fingers. Not much of a weapon, but the silver edge could cut through binding thread. If Dax Rourke came through that door, I could make him bleed worse than he already sounded.
"Try it," I called. "I charge extra for repairs after idiots damage my shop."
The door shook hard enough to rattle the jars on my shelves.
"You're not in a position to be funny."
"You're not in a position to threaten me."
"Mara."
That one word came rough and low. Not angry. Worse. Desperate.
I glanced at the lock. Black residue crawled around the metal like spilled ink. His oath was already inside the door. If I opened it, the binding would know my name. If I left it shut, Dax might die on my steps, and the city would still blame me for it.
Honestly? That last part almost made the choice easy.
He had hunted me through three districts. He had posted my face outside every oath office in Greyharbor. He had dragged my name through hearings and called me a vow-breaker in front of half the city.
Let him bleed.
The door slammed inward.
Dax hit it shoulder-first, splintering the frame. He stumbled across the threshold, one hand pressed against his chest, the other holding a black iron pistol leveled straight at me.
Blood ran between his fingers.
His coat was torn from collar to hip. The gray enforcement badge at his throat had been cracked down the middle. His eyes found mine and stayed there, sharp even while his face had gone pale.
"Drop the knife," he said.
I kept it raised. "Drop the gun."
"I said—"
"I heard you. Your chest is leaking all over my floor. Try saying something useful."
His pistol did not move. "You have thirty seconds to fix this."
"Fix what? Your manners?"
He took one step toward me.
A black line jumped from his collarbone to his jaw. Dax's breath caught. The pistol dipped for half a second, and I saw the wound beneath his hand.
The skin around it was not torn. It was burning from the inside.
"That," he said.
"You were stabbed with a dead vow."
"No kidding."
"Who did it?"
"Someone who wanted me dead."
"That narrows it down to everyone in the Oath Bureau."
His mouth tightened. "You have twenty-four seconds."
I almost laughed. "You break into my shop, point a gun at me, and expect me to save you?"
"If I die, the oath takes you with me."
The knife stopped halfway to his throat.
Dax watched me understand.
"You're lying," I said.
"Check the mark."
"Why would I check anything you tell me to check?"
"Because your left wrist is burning."
Heat flashed under my sleeve.
I looked down. A thin black ring had appeared around my wrist. It looked like ink pressed under the skin. The ring pulsed once, matching the frantic beat in Dax's chest.
My stomach dropped.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"Wrong answer."
He took another step. The workshop suddenly felt too small for his shoulders, his gun, and the distance between us. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the floorboards.
"Three days ago," he said, "the Bureau assigned me your arrest. I signed the capture oath. Your name went into it. Mine went in as the enforcer."
"Capture oaths don't link life threads."
"This one did."
"Then you signed something you didn't read."
His stare sharpened. "I read it."
"You? Reading fine print? That's adorable."
"Mara, my heart stops, yours stops next."
The black ring around my wrist tightened.
Pain shot up my arm. I bit down before the sound could escape, but Dax saw it anyway. His gun lowered another inch.
"Now will you help me?"
"No."
His eyebrows pulled together. "No?"
"You came here to arrest me."
"I came here because you're the only person in Greyharbor who can cut this oath."
"And if I don't?"
"You die."
"That was the plan."
"And you die with me."
"I heard you the first time."
"Then move."
He raised the pistol again.
I threw the vow-knife.
Dax twisted. The blade missed his throat by an inch and buried itself in the door behind him. His gaze flicked toward it. I used that half-second to kick the stool between us and sprint for the workbench.
"You really are the worst person I've ever met," he snapped.
"You arrest people for a living. Don't get precious."
He shoved the stool aside and caught my wrist before I reached the bench.
His hand closed around me, hot and hard. The black ring flared. Pain struck both of us at once.
Dax swore and jerked me back against his chest.
The gun pressed beneath my jaw.
His breath touched my ear. Warm. Uneven. He smelled like iron, burnt leather, and the sharp smoke left by oath magic.
"Stop fighting me," he said.
"Take the gun away from my face."
"Not until you listen."
"I'm listening to your pulse. It's skipping."
He went still.
I felt the next beat stumble against my back.
"You're running out of time," I said.
"Then stop wasting it."
"You want me to save you? Ask properly."
His fingers tightened around my wrist. "Fix the oath."
"That isn't asking."
"Please."
The word came out like it hurt him more than the wound.
I turned my head just enough to see his face over my shoulder. His jaw was locked. Sweat darkened the hair at his temple. The gun stayed under my chin, but his grip had shifted. He was holding me like he expected me to vanish.
"Say my name," I told him.
His eyes narrowed. "What?"
"The oath is keyed to my full name. If you want my hands on it, say my name and ask."
"Mara Venn. Fix the black vow."
"Still not a request."
"Mara Venn, please fix the black vow before it kills us both."
The ring on my wrist loosened.
Not much. Enough.
I drove my heel into his boot and twisted hard. Dax cursed, lost his balance, and slammed into the workbench. His pistol clattered across the floor.
I spun and shoved him back against the shelves.
Glass jars crashed around his shoulders. He caught my arm before I could reach for the gun, but his strength faltered. The wound in his chest pulsed black beneath his torn shirt.
"Hands off me," I said.
"Get the gun."