Days passed. Then weeks. Kieran existed, but didn't live.
He went through the motions—managing his business empire, dealing with threats to his territory, hunting the remaining members of the group that had killed Adrian. He found them one by one, and his revenge was methodical, brutal, complete.
But revenge brought no comfort.
Elena Volkov was the last. He cornered her in an abandoned church, and she didn't even try to run.
"Do it," she said, kneeling before him. "I deserve it. I led them to you. I helped them kill your mate."
Kieran's hand closed around her throat. One squeeze, and she'd be dead. One moment of violence, and he'd have eliminated the last person responsible for Adrian's death.
But as he looked into her mismatched eyes, he saw something he recognized: grief.
"Why?" he asked. "Why did you do it?"
"Because they had my brother," she whispered. "The hunters captured him, tortured him. They said they'd let him go if I helped them kill you. I thought... I thought if I gave them what they wanted, I could save him."
"And did you?"
Tears streamed down her face. "They killed him anyway. As soon as you were distracted, as soon as the weapon fired, they executed him. I betrayed you for nothing."
Kieran should have felt satisfaction at her pain. Should have reveled in her suffering as payment for Adrian's death.
Instead, he just felt tired.
"Go," he said, releasing her throat. "Live with what you've done. That's punishment enough."
He walked away, leaving her sobbing in the church.
Revenge was meaningless. Justice was meaningless. Nothing mattered in a world without Adrian.