Chapter 11 · The Price of Blood

"Don't move another inch, Vey. I'll break your wrist before you can even blink."

Riven’s voice was a slab of ice. He had her pinned against the cold stone wall of the vault, his forearm crushed across her throat. No heat. No hunger. The desperate, clinging need from an hour ago was gone. His eyes were just grey steel. Empty. Professional.

Mara choked, fingers clawing at the heavy leather of his sleeve. "Riven, look at me. You... you remember. You remember the vault. You remember Eli."

"I remember a crime scene," he snapped. He tightened his grip. "And I remember you're a thief who shouldn't be breathing. Now, where's the rest of the contract?"

She gasped, air cutting off in jagged pieces. "You forgot? You actually forgot me?"

"I didn't forget you." He leaned in. His breath ghosted over her lips, but there was no warmth. Only a threat. "I just stopped caring who you were. You're a target. Nothing more."

"Riven, stop!" Soren scrambled back, hands shaking as he clutched a stack of parchment. "The backlash—it didn't just wipe the emotional imprint. It reset your loyalty parameters.