“You should’ve listened to your brother.”
Thorfinn lunged.
He didn’t think.
Thinking had become impossible the second Mira Amato stepped into the light wearing a dead woman’s blood and a living woman’s smile. His body moved before his mind could make sense of her. Knife up. Shoulder forward. One clean line toward the place he had already opened once.
Mira moved too.
Not gracefully.
Not like before.
She was still damaged, still barefoot and bruised and wrapped in that white robe like a ghost that had gotten tired of haunting and decided to start hunting instead. But she was fast enough. The blade skimmed past her shoulder, catching fabric instead of flesh, and she twisted sideways into the narrow space between the wall and the side table.
The knife struck wood.
Thorfinn ripped it free with a grunt.
Mira watched him.
That was the part that made his stomach turn.
She did not look like someone who had just been killed.
She looked inconvenienced.
Thorfinn swung again.
This time she caught his wrist with both hands.
Pain flashed through his forearm where she had cut him earlier, and his grip weakened for half a second. Mira noticed. Of course she noticed. Her thumb dug into the bandage beneath his sleeve, pressing exactly where the wound burned hottest.
Thorfinn hissed and shoved her back.
She hit the wall hard enough to rattle the framed print beside her, but she didn’t fall.
She smiled.
Thorfinn backed up one step despite himself.
Mira’s eyes dropped to his feet.
She saw it.
The retreat.
The fear.
Her smile softened into something almost sweet.
“Oh,” she whispered. “There it is.”
Thorfinn’s jaw clenched. “Stay away from me.”
Mira laughed.
It came out broken and rough and too quiet, but it was still a laugh.
“You came here.”
He lifted the knife again.
His hand was steady.
Mostly.
“What are you?”
Mira tilted her head, damp hair sliding across one bruised cheek. “You already asked me that.”
“Answer me.”
Her gaze moved briefly past him, toward the brighter mouth of the hallway that led to the main villa.
Thorfinn saw it.
For one stupid second, hope sparked through him.
The main hall.
Guests.
Witnesses.
People who would see her like this.
People who would finally see—
Mira stepped into his path before he could move.
Her face changed.
Not much.
Just enough that all the humor left it.
“No one gets to see me like this.”
The sentence was quiet.
Absolute.
Thorfinn’s pulse slammed against his throat.
He feinted left, then bolted right toward the main hall.
Mira moved after him.
He was bigger than her. Stronger than her. Less injured, maybe, though the thought felt absurd now. He should have been able to shove past her easily.
But she knew the hall better than he did.
Or maybe she simply knew people better.
She didn’t try to overpower him. She knocked the side table with her hip as he passed, sending it skidding into his legs. Thorfinn stumbled, catching himself against the wall before he went down. Mira grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked him away from the bright hall with surprising force.
He spun and slashed.
The knife caught her across the side of the arm.
Blood welled instantly.
Mira looked at the cut.
Then at him.
Annoyed.
Not afraid.
Not even pained enough.
Annoyed.
Thorfinn hated her for that more than anything.
He drove forward again, using his shoulder this time. Mira hit the opposite wall with a sharp breath, and for one second he had space. He turned toward the main corridor.
Somewhere close enough to matter.
He opened his mouth.
Mira’s hand clamped over it from behind.
The glass shard in her other hand pressed beneath his jaw.
Thorfinn froze.
Her body was against his back, smaller than his, shaking faintly from pain or effort or rage. Her breath brushed his ear, uneven and warm.
“If you scream,” she whispered, “I’ll make sure you’ll never scream again.”
He believed her.
That was the first real horror.
Not that she had come back.
Not even that she was holding glass to his throat.
That he believed her immediately.
Mira pulled him backward.
Thorfinn slammed his elbow into her ribs. She gasped, grip loosening just enough for him to tear away. The glass nicked him under the jaw, a hot sting opening along his skin, but not deep.
He stumbled toward the service stairs instead of the main hall.
Wrong direction.
He knew it instantly.
Mira knew it too.
The smile came back.
“Careful,” she rasped. “You’re getting turned around.”
Thorfinn raised the knife between them, breathing hard.
His brother’s voice moved through him, thin and desperate behind prison glass.
Don’t get close to her.
Too late.
Mira took one step forward.
Bare feet.
Blood on the floor.
Robe hanging open at one shoulder.
A bride remade into something that should not have been standing.
“What do you want?” Thorfinn asked.
Mira’s eyes lifted to his.
Cold blue.
Almost bright.
“My wedding back.”
The words scraped out of Mira’s throat, rougher than she wanted them to sound.
That annoyed her too.
Everything about this annoyed her. The blood drying beneath her nails. The ache in her ribs. The sting across her arm where Thorfinn’s knife had opened her again, as if once had not been enough for him. The robe slipping off one shoulder, making her look less like a bride and more like something that had crawled out of a locked room in a ghost story.
She did not like being made into someone else’s warning.
She preferred being the lesson.
Thorfinn stood near the service stairs with the knife raised between them, breathing too hard, eyes too wide. He had been dangerous before. Focused. Controlled. Full of purpose sharpened by grief.
Now he was afraid.
Afraid suited him badly.
Mira took one step toward him.
He tightened his grip on the knife.
“Don’t.”
She smiled faintly. “You keep saying that.”
“Stay back.”
“You came to me.”
His jaw flexed. “You were supposed to stay dead.”
Mira laughed softly.
It hurt. Her throat flared hot, and the sound cracked halfway through, turning into something uglier. She hated that. Hated that he got to hear it. Hated that even pain was making her less polished than she preferred.
“Yes,” she said, once the pain eased enough to let her speak. “That is the usual expectation.”
Thorfinn’s gaze flicked toward the main hall.
Mira moved before he did.
Not toward him.
Toward the wall.
Her hand struck the light switch, and half the corridor went dark.
Thorfinn cursed under his breath.
The villa was old enough to have moods, and Mira knew most of them now. She knew which sconces flickered before fully dying. She knew where the rug bunched slightly near the service stairs. She knew which side door stuck in the frame and had to be pulled hard before it opened. She knew because she had walked these halls with Ethan while he explained family history and staff routes and fire exits, earnest and practical and worried about things like guest comfort.
Sweet Ethan.
Beautiful Ethan.
Ethan, who had no idea his bride was hunting a man barefoot through his family’s villa in a stolen robe.
Mira’s fingers tightened around the glass shard.
No one got to ruin this for her.
Thorfinn backed toward the stairs.
“You’re a monster,” he said.
Mira slipped into the darkened edge of the corridor, letting the shadows take the shape of her. “That was never the problem.”
He turned toward her voice and slashed.
Too early.
Too panicked.
The blade cut air.
Mira stepped back, just beyond reach, watching him overcorrect. His injured arm was slowing him. Not much, but enough. The cut she had given him earlier had soaked through his bandage, darkening the sleeve of his clean shirt near the forearm. He favored that side. Protected it without realizing.
People always guarded what hurt.
That made pain useful.
“Your brother guarded his stomach after I stabbed him,” Mira said.
Thorfinn went still.
There.
Mira’s mouth curved.
“He kept one hand there the whole time. Like holding himself together would make a difference.”
“Shut up.”
His voice shook.
Barely.
Enough.
“It was almost sad,” Mira continued, moving slowly now, circling just enough to angle him away from the main hallway. “He really did keep trying to tell people the truth. Even bleeding, even terrified. I admire that a little.”
Thorfinn’s grip tightened. “Don’t say his name.”
“Ymir,” she said softly.
He lunged.
Exactly as she wanted.
Mira dropped lower, pain flaring through her side as she moved, and shoved the small side cart into his legs. It clipped his knee and sent him stumbling into the wall. The knife scraped against the paneling. He caught himself, but she was already moving past him, not close enough to be grabbed, not far enough for him to get comfortable.
She was not stronger than him.
That was fine.
Strength was rarely the most interesting tool in a room.
Thorfinn spun toward her, face flushed, fear and rage knotting together until he looked almost young.
For a second, she saw the resemblance again.
Not in the face exactly.
In the desperation.
Ymir had probably looked like that at the end too. Confused. Hurt. Still hoping if he said the right thing, someone would understand.
Mira had hated that hope.
It made people slow.
Thorfinn was learning faster than his brother, though. He did not chase immediately this time. He glanced down the hall, toward the brighter part of the villa, toward the world where music still played and witnesses still existed.
Mira saw the decision form.
She smiled.
Then she threw the glass shard.
It did not need to land perfectly.
It didn’t.
It caught him across the cheek, slicing shallow and bright. Thorfinn flinched hard, one hand flying to his face.
Mira darted sideways through the service door.
Not away.
Around.
She knew where the corridor bent. Knew the storage room connected to the little prep hall near the kitchens. Knew if he followed the sound of her robe against the wall, he would think she was heading back toward the powder room.
She wasn’t.
Mira slipped through the first door, crossed the storage room in three quick, painful steps, and pressed herself against the wall beside a shelf stacked with folded linens.
Her breath came rough.
Too loud.
She held it.
Outside, Thorfinn’s footsteps slowed.
Good.
He was listening now.
That meant he was thinking.
Thinking meant he could be led.
Mira reached to the shelf and closed her fingers around the first solid thing she found: a heavy brass candleholder, cold and smooth and ridiculous. She looked at it in the faint light spilling beneath the door.
Rich people really did leave weapons everywhere and call them décor.
Thorfinn stepped into the storage room.
Knife first.
Then shoulder.
Then face, tense and watchful.
He looked toward the far exit.
Not at her.
Mira waited one breath.
Two.
Then she swung.
The candleholder struck his injured forearm with a dull, satisfying crack.
Thorfinn shouted.
The knife fell.
Mira kicked it under the shelving before he could reach.
He slammed into her in the next second, all weight and panic, driving her backward into the linen shelf. Pain burst through her ribs, and neatly folded towels rained down around them. His hand closed around her throat before either of them fully regained balance.
Mira’s vision flashed white.
Not again.
Her hand shot up, not to pry his fingers away, but to jam her thumb into the cut across his cheek.
Thorfinn hissed, grip loosening.
Mira drove her knee up.
He staggered.
She shoved him backward with both hands, harder than her body wanted to allow, and he crashed into the small prep table behind him. Metal trays clattered to the floor.
The noise was too loud.
Too dangerous.
Mira froze.
So did Thorfinn.
For one horrible second, they listened.
The villa held.
No footsteps.
No voices.
The music outside swelled over the crash like the island itself had decided to keep her secret.
Mira smiled at him.
“Lucky,” she whispered.
Thorfinn’s face twisted.
He grabbed one of the fallen trays and threw it at her.
Mira ducked, but slower this time. The edge caught her temple, and the world lurched sideways. She hit the shelf, one hand bracing against the wall, breath tearing through her throat.
For a second, Thorfinn was smart.
He didn’t attack her.
He ran.
Out the far door.
Toward the kitchen corridor.
Toward people.
Mira blinked hard, vision doubling, then righting itself.
Blood slid down the side of her face.
That was fine.
Everything was fine.
She pushed away from the shelf and followed him.
Not running.
Not yet.
She knew this hall too.
There was a turn ahead. A pantry door. A service stairwell. A little side corridor that cut behind the kitchen and emptied near the wine storage.
Thorfinn thought he was escaping.
That was adorable.
Mira wiped blood from her eye with the back of her hand and took the side corridor.
Her body screamed with every step.
Her throat burned. Her arm throbbed. Her ribs pulled sharply where the wound had not quite finished closing.
But rage was better than medicine.
And Mira had always known how to move through pain when the ending was worth it.
At the end of the side corridor, she paused beside the wine room door and listened.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Coming closer.
Thorfinn rounded the corner.
Mira stepped out.
He collided with her before he could stop.
She drove the candleholder into his stomach.
Once.
Hard.
The breath left him in a broken rush.
Then she slammed it against the side of his head.
Thorfinn dropped to one knee.
Mira leaned close, one hand braced against the wall to keep herself upright.
“You wanted people to see what I am,” she rasped.
He looked up at her, dazed and bleeding.
Mira smiled.
“Now it’s just you.”
Thorfinn tried to stand.
His body did not listen the first time.
One knee stayed pressed to the floor. One hand braced against the wall. His injured arm hung close to his side, hot and useless, blood slipping beneath the bandage in slow, sticky pulses. The corridor tilted around him, wine room door to his left, shadows stretching long across the floor, Mira above him in the white robe she had stolen from death like everything else.
He had come here for justice.
That was what he kept trying to remember.
Ymir behind glass.
Ymir thinner than before.
Ymir saying, Finn, please don’t.
He had thought his brother was afraid because prison had broken something in him.
Now Thorfinn understood.
Mira stepped closer.
The candleholder hung loose in her hand, its brass edge dark where it had struck him. Her face was bruised, blood smeared at her temple, throat ruined and healed all at once. She looked terrible.
She looked alive.
That was worse.
Thorfinn’s hand slid along the floor, searching for anything. A shard. A tray. The knife he had lost somewhere behind them. His fingers found only cold tile.
“Mira,” he said.
Her head tilted.
She liked hearing her name like that. He saw it. The fear in it fed something in her.
“Don’t beg,” she rasped. “You’ll disappoint me.”
His breath shook.
He hated himself for it.
“Ymir was right,” he whispered.
For a second, her smile thinned.
“Yes,” she said. “He was.”
Then she moved.
Thorfinn lunged sideways, grabbing for the wine room handle, but Mira caught the back of his shirt and yanked him hard enough that the fabric tore at the collar. He slammed into the wall, pain bursting white behind his eyes. Before he could recover, she drove her knee into his stomach and shoved him through the wine room door.
He hit the floor among dark shelves and glass bottles.
The room smelled like wood, dust, and expensive wine. Low lights glowed beneath the shelves, casting everything in red-gold shadow. Bottles lined the walls in perfect rows, hundreds of them, waiting for celebrations and toasts and family dinners that would never know what happened between them.
Thorfinn crawled backward.
Mira stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
Softly.
That softness terrified him more than a slam would have.
“No witnesses,” she said.
He pushed himself up against one of the shelves, knocking bottles together. “You killed them.”
Mira’s gaze sharpened.
“Careful.”
“Katarin. Noah. Simon and Ramon.” His voice broke around the names, but he forced them out anyway. “Kane helped you. You framed my brother.”
Mira watched him like he was reciting something boring.
“Yes.”
The word struck him silent.
All those months. All those letters from Ymir. All the desperation. All the times his brother had sworn the truth while everyone called him a monster.
And she said yes like it cost nothing.
Thorfinn’s eyes burned.
“Why?”
Mira looked almost amused. “Because he was easy to believe as the villain.”
Thorfinn surged at her.
It was a bad attack. Too desperate. Too slow. Mira stepped aside and brought the candleholder down against his injured arm.
Pain tore through him.
He cried out before he could stop it.
Mira caught his wrist and twisted until he dropped fully to his knees. Then she leaned close, her voice a broken whisper against his ear.
“And because people always believe pretty girls who cry.”
Thorfinn slammed his head back.
It caught her cheek.
Mira staggered, and he scrambled toward the nearest shelf, grabbing the neck of a bottle. He swung it wildly. She ducked too late; glass clipped her shoulder and shattered against the wall.
For one second, he had space.
He reached for the door.
Mira caught him again.
This time, she did not use the candleholder.
She used the broken bottle.
Not deeply at first. Just enough across his side to stop him, enough to make his body fold around the pain. Thorfinn stumbled, hit the door with one shoulder, and slid down against it.
His hand went to the wound.
Warm.
Wet.
His mind flashed to Ymir and him riding horses on their ranch.
Mira crouched in front of him.
“That,” she said softly, “is for ruining my dress.”
Thorfinn looked at her.
Really looked.
And for the first time, he understood the full shape of what Ymir had tried to warn him about. Not just that Mira was cruel. Not just that she lied. But that she could make cruelty feel casual. Intimate. Like she was sharing a secret while she took someone apart.
“He told me not to come,” Thorfinn whispered.
Mira’s eyes brightened.
“Your brother?”
Thorfinn nodded once.
A tear slipped down his face before he could stop it.
“He was scared.”
“Smart,” Mira said.
Thorfinn tried to say Ymir’s name.
Maybe as an apology.
Maybe as a prayer.
Maybe because, at the end, people reached for whoever had loved them before they became stupid with revenge.
He never got the whole word out.
Mira moved fast, one hand clamping against his shoulder as the broken glass found his throat in a bright, brutal mirror of what he had done to her.
His breath caught.
Then failed.
Mira held him there, close enough that her blood and his mixed between them, close enough for him to see his own terror reflected in her blue eyes.
“Now,” she whispered, “you know what it feels like.”
Thorfinn’s hand lifted weakly.
Not toward her.
Toward nothing.
Toward a brother behind glass.
Toward a warning he should have obeyed.
His fingers curled once.
Then fell.
He had come for justice.
Mira gave him symmetry.