08-30-2025, 11:08 PM
She didn’t move.
As Dante, if that was even his real name, strode forward, channeling power like a serpent shedding its skin, Grym kept her back pressed against the far wall. Her arms remained crossed, but tension had crept into her shoulders and locked her jaw. Every instinct screamed to move. To draw a knife. To react.
But she didn’t.
Because doing so in this room, surrounded by injured men and a volatile mafioso who’d just flirted with cutting her face off for decoration, would be suicide.
The moment Giovanni spoke Zholdin’s name with that almost lazy smile and touched him, Grym’s stomach turned. Not from jealousy, not even from fear, but from the grim, ancient weight of knowing exactly what she was seeing.
This was channeling the godpower. Pure and unmistakable. She’d watched gods before. Hunted them. Killed one. Barely. Then, a name came to mind.
Nora.
That impossible girl, all fire and stubbornness. She was a channeler too. Grym had known for months. Had covered for her. Trained her, protected her, loved her like a daughter.
She would never harm Nora.
So why did she want to put a bullet through Dante’s skull?
Her mouth was dry. The room felt too warm. It wasn’t just the heat from the club, or the stink of blood and sweaty gopniks. It was him, walking between Zholdin and her like a living fault line. Like a man who could split the earth if he willed it.
She didn’t trust him. She didn’t understand him. But most terrifying of all— She didn’t hate him. That was the problem. Hatred was easy. It was clean. The Atharim trained for it. But now? Grym found herself watching the way his hand brushed Zholdin’s shoulder, the way his voice dropped just enough to sound menacing, and all she could think was:
You are going to be a problem.
The chaos curled off him like smoke. It clung to the air, coiled behind his words, and in the heat of the moment, Zholdin didn’t even flinch. The mafia boss leaned back like a man considering a new kind of weapon.
A power like that loose in the world terrified her. But she couldn’t stop it. Not now. Not alone. She swallowed hard and made her decision.
She would stay close. Watch them both. Dante had offered his name, and with that, a crack in the wall. Names were always the beginning of connection. Intimacy possibly. He'd never given an inkling of the typical reactions of other men, but his swagger told her all she needed to know. He was ego wrapped in barbed wire. Touch him, and you risk getting cut. Somewhere under the skin was vulnerability, and she would find it. And when the time came, take her only shot, or die trying.
Maybe.
But her heart twisted when she thought of Nora. Would she feel it? Would she know?
The guilt flared, hot and acidic, but Grym crushed it down like she always did.
The mission came first. The world had rules. The moment you let sentiment cloud them, you opened the door to monsters.
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
As Dante, if that was even his real name, strode forward, channeling power like a serpent shedding its skin, Grym kept her back pressed against the far wall. Her arms remained crossed, but tension had crept into her shoulders and locked her jaw. Every instinct screamed to move. To draw a knife. To react.
But she didn’t.
Because doing so in this room, surrounded by injured men and a volatile mafioso who’d just flirted with cutting her face off for decoration, would be suicide.
The moment Giovanni spoke Zholdin’s name with that almost lazy smile and touched him, Grym’s stomach turned. Not from jealousy, not even from fear, but from the grim, ancient weight of knowing exactly what she was seeing.
This was channeling the godpower. Pure and unmistakable. She’d watched gods before. Hunted them. Killed one. Barely. Then, a name came to mind.
Nora.
That impossible girl, all fire and stubbornness. She was a channeler too. Grym had known for months. Had covered for her. Trained her, protected her, loved her like a daughter.
She would never harm Nora.
So why did she want to put a bullet through Dante’s skull?
Her mouth was dry. The room felt too warm. It wasn’t just the heat from the club, or the stink of blood and sweaty gopniks. It was him, walking between Zholdin and her like a living fault line. Like a man who could split the earth if he willed it.
She didn’t trust him. She didn’t understand him. But most terrifying of all— She didn’t hate him. That was the problem. Hatred was easy. It was clean. The Atharim trained for it. But now? Grym found herself watching the way his hand brushed Zholdin’s shoulder, the way his voice dropped just enough to sound menacing, and all she could think was:
You are going to be a problem.
The chaos curled off him like smoke. It clung to the air, coiled behind his words, and in the heat of the moment, Zholdin didn’t even flinch. The mafia boss leaned back like a man considering a new kind of weapon.
A power like that loose in the world terrified her. But she couldn’t stop it. Not now. Not alone. She swallowed hard and made her decision.
She would stay close. Watch them both. Dante had offered his name, and with that, a crack in the wall. Names were always the beginning of connection. Intimacy possibly. He'd never given an inkling of the typical reactions of other men, but his swagger told her all she needed to know. He was ego wrapped in barbed wire. Touch him, and you risk getting cut. Somewhere under the skin was vulnerability, and she would find it. And when the time came, take her only shot, or die trying.
Maybe.
But her heart twisted when she thought of Nora. Would she feel it? Would she know?
The guilt flared, hot and acidic, but Grym crushed it down like she always did.
The mission came first. The world had rules. The moment you let sentiment cloud them, you opened the door to monsters.
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
‡‡ GRYM ‡‡