22. Twenty-One
My hands were steady as I studied my reflection in our hotel's full-length mirror one final time. My dress was a weapon, black silk that whispered against my skin with every movement, the architectural details concealing more literal weapons beneath. Ash's marks from this morning were hidden under fabric and makeup, but I could feel them with every step. A constant reminder of who I belonged to, even as I prepared to play bait for a murderer.
I'd done my makeup like armor, sharp enough to cut. The kind of face that would catch Roche's eye without screaming desperation. I'd learned to weaponize the way people's gazes lingered when they couldn't quite categorize me, their uncertainty making me both more intriguing and more dangerous. Everything about my appearance had been calculated, from the precise wing of my eyeliner to the way my dress highlighted both strength and vulnerability. The perfect lure for someone who collected beautiful things and broke them.
"You're spiraling." Ash's voice cut through my thoughts as he appeared in the mirror behind me, every inch the wealthy crime novelist in his perfectly tailored suit. His hands settled on my hips, possessive even through the silk. "I can see it in your eyes, baby. Come back to me."
I leaned back against his chest, letting his solid presence ground me. "Just getting into character," I murmured, already feeling that familiar electric thrill race through my veins.
This wasn't my first time playing bait for a predator. I'd built my career on understanding people's desires, their assumptions, their blind spots. They saw what they wanted to see—beauty, vulnerability, submission—while missing the steel beneath. Their inability to see past surface categories was always their downfall.
Something about having Ash behind me, about knowing I was his even as I prepared to seduce a killer... it made everything sharper. More intense. The thought of the dangerous game ahead had my cock hardening in my lace panties.
"Remember," Ash's voice dropped lower, his breath hot against my ear. "You're mine. No matter what happens out there, no matter how deep this cover goes. You belong to me."
His words settled something in my chest, calming the familiar BPD spiral of too much, not enough, wrong wrong wrong. With him, I never had to choose between parts of myself or fit into neat categories. He saw all of me and wanted me exactly as I was. This wasn't like all those times I'd used my body as a weapon, seeking validation through a stranger's touch. Back then, each encounter had been a desperate attempt to feel real, to quiet the relentless thoughts that I was nothing, worthless, empty. But now I had purpose, control, someone who saw me as whole even when I couldn't see it myself. This was a mission. And more importantly, I had someone to come back to.
"Yours," I agreed, meeting his eyes in the mirror. The possession I saw there made heat pool in my belly despite the situation. "Though you might want to ease up on the caveman act if we're going to sell this cover."
His smile was all predator as he pressed closer, letting me feel exactly how affected he was by my outfit. "You think Roche will believe a man could have something like you and not want to show it off?" His teeth grazed my neck, just hard enough to make me gasp.
"Later," I promised, though my body screamed for more. "After we make contact. After we find Misha."
The reminder of why we were here sobered us both. Ash stepped back, though his hand stayed possessively on my lower back. "Nikolai's intel puts Roche at his usual table by now. You ready?"
I checked my reflection one final time, adjusted the knife concealed at my thigh. "I was fucking born ready."
The club rose like a gothic cathedral gone wrong, all black stone and wrought iron transformed into something decadent and dangerous. Where religious iconography should have been, there were twisted metal sculptures of beautiful figures forever frozen in poses that might have been ecstasy or agony. The entrance was unmarked except for a small brass plaque bearing the club's name in elegant script, while velvet ropes held back a crowd of Paris's most beautiful in their darkest finery.
The doorman's eyes flickered over Ash's credentials before he unclipped the rope, not even bothering to check my ID. Smart man. We'd chosen this outfit specifically because it made me look exactly like the kind of prey Roche preferred. It was a calculated risk. The barely legal look might attract unwanted attention from other predators in the club, but that could work in our favor. Let them watch. Every pair of eyes on me was another witness who could place us here if things went wrong.
The bass hit me the moment we stepped through the heavy doors, vibrating in my chest like a second heartbeat. The air was thick with competing scents of expensive perfume, spilled champagne, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of desperation. The temperature dropped as we descended, the club's climate control fighting a losing battle against the heat of writhing bodies and the cold stone walls. Every surface held that particular sticky sheen unique to high end nightclubs at peak hours, where even the expensive finishes couldn't quite disguise what humans did in the dark. A spiral staircase dominated the entrance, its black marble steps disappearing up into darkness. The writhing figures on the walls were definitely not saints, their gilt faces caught in expressions that belonged in heaven and hell both.
The main floor of Le Voile was a carefully orchestrated chaos of beautiful people and pulsing music. The kind of place where the cover charge could feed a family for a month and the champagne started at four figures. Exactly where someone like Roche would hunt.
I felt eyes on us as Ash guided me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my back. The possessive touch wasn't just for show anymore. We both needed the contact to stay grounded. To remember that this was a mission, not just another night of me trying to fill the hollow spaces inside me with chemical courage and stranger's validation.
Nikolai's men had secured us a booth with clear sightlines to Roche's usual table while maintaining enough distance to avoid seeming eager. I caught Anton's eye across the room where he lounged against the bar, playing his role as our security perfectly. The rest of his team was scattered throughout the club, ready to intervene if things went sideways.
My phone buzzed for the fourth time that evening. Xavier again. I silenced it without looking at his latest message about my fashion internship, guilt twisting in my gut. He'd been calling increasingly often since we'd landed in Paris, his texts growing more worried when I kept brushing him off with vague responses about being too busy to talk. But I couldn't deal with his particular brand of possessiveness right now. Not when I needed to stay focused.
"Dance with me?" I turned in Ash’s arms, letting him see the need in my eyes. This wasn't just about the mission anymore. I needed his touch, needed to feel claimed before I had to play bait for a murderer.
Ash's eyes darkened as he pulled me to my feet. "Anything for you, baby."
The dance floor was a press of beautiful bodies, but Ash carved out space for us like he owned it, his movements controlled to favor his bad leg. His hands settled on my hips as I moved against him, letting me take the lead while making it look like he was in control.
"Let me guess," I murmured against his ear, rolling my hips in a way that made his fingers tighten. "Last time you were in a club, they were still playing disco."
His grip turned bruising. "Behave yourself, brat."
"Or what, you'll throw out your back trying to keep up with me?" I pressed closer, letting him feel every movement. "Don't worry, Daddy. I'll be gentle with you. Wouldn't want to strain anything."
"Keep running that pretty mouth," Ash growled, but I caught the amusement beneath the warning. "See what it gets you later."
I caught Roche watching our little display in the mirror behind the bar, their expression calculating. Good. Let them see how Ash handled my bratty behavior, how easily he turned disobedience into a game of control.
The rhythm of the music shifted to something darker, more primal. I let myself get lost in it, channeling every ounce of training into making this performance perfect. Each movement was calculated to draw attention while maintaining the illusion of spontaneity. This was what I'd been trained for, to be both weapon and lure, beauty and blade.
"They’re watching," Ash murmured against my ear, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "Time to move to phase two."
I caught Roche's reflection again as Ash guided me off the dance floor. The designer sat like a spider in their web, surrounded by beautiful people but focused entirely on us. On me. Their expression was hungry as they watched us over the rim of their crystal glass.
Misha sat at their right hand, ethereal in what I recognized as a piece from Roche's latest collection. The architectural lines of the suit emphasized both strength and vulnerability, transforming him into living art. His pupils were blown wide, movements sluggish as he reached for a glass that was never quite empty. The subtle tremor in his hands, the glassy sheen to his eyes… Classic signs of benzodiazepines. But there was something else in the jerky way he blinked, the micro-twitches at the corners of his mouth. They’d probably mixed the benzos with ketamine or something similar. The combination would keep him compliant while maintaining the illusion of consciousness for the public eye.
A server materialized beside our table, her French rapid and musical. Ash responded smoothly in kind. I watched his reflection in the mirrored walls as he ordered, noting how Roche's attention sharpened at his perfect accent.
"Louis XIII," Ash told me in English, his hand sliding higher on my thigh. "And something special for you, my love."
The cognac was a power move. At four figures per pour, it screamed both wealth and taste. Perfect for our cover. I leaned into his touch, letting my dress ride up just enough to be interesting. "You spoil me," I purred, watching Roche track the movement in the mirror.
The designer's eyes lingered on where Ash's fingers pressed into my thigh, their expression hungry. Beside him, Misha started to slide down the seat, only to be caught by Roche's steadying hand. The casual possessiveness of the gesture made my stomach turn.
"Monsieur Roche would like to know if you'd care to join him," a deeply accented voice announced. One of Roche's security detail loomed over our table, his bearing screaming military training. "He rarely meets others with such... exquisite taste."
Ash's smile was pure predator as he helped me to my feet. "We'd be delighted."
The guard led us to Roche's private alcove, the space deliberately arranged to put guests at a disadvantage. The designer sprawled across butter-soft leather, one arm draped possessively around Misha's shoulders.
"Welcome," Roche purred in accented English. "I couldn't help but admire you both from afar. Such a striking couple."
"You're too kind," Ash replied, settling me against his side. His arm wrapped around my waist, grip firm enough to brand. "Though I must admit, we've been hoping to catch your eye. Your latest collection was revolutionary."
Roche's smile sharpened with genuine pleasure. "A fan of my work? How delightful." Their gaze raked over me with unconcealed hunger. "Though I suspect your lovely companion would look stunning in anything."
"Flatterer," I murmured, letting heat color my voice. "Though I'm hardly the most interesting artwork in your collection tonight."
Roche's eyes glittered as they tightened their grip on Misha, who blinked slowly at the contact. "Ah yes, my beautiful muse. Though I'm afraid he's a bit... under the weather this evening. The pressures of such beauty, you understand."
"The demands of beauty can be so exhausting," I agreed, trailing my fingers along Ash's jaw. "Thankfully, my husband knows exactly how to help me relax."
"I bet he does." Roche leaned forward, openly admiring how Ash's hands branded my skin. "Though surely a man of his... appetites must enjoy sharing such exquisite beauty occasionally?"
"Only with those who truly appreciate art," Ash replied, his voice dark with promise. His grip tightened possessively as Roche's eyes gleamed with interest.
"Then perhaps you'd both enjoy a private showing of my upcoming collection?" Roche suggested. "I have a small soiree planned for tomorrow evening. Very exclusive. Very... intimate."
"We'd love to," I answered before Ash could speak, letting eagerness color my tone. "Wouldn't we, darling?"
Ash's smile held equal parts possession and warning as he squeezed my hip. "Whatever makes you happy, precious."
"Excellent." Roche produced a black card embossed with nothing but a phone number. "Call this number tomorrow afternoon for the details. The dress code is... minimal."
I accepted the card with a coy smile, making sure our fingers brushed. "We look forward to seeing more of your work. All of it."
"And I look forward to seeing more of you both," Roche replied, their meaning unmistakable as their gaze lingered on my throat, my thighs, the places where Ash's hands marked me as his. "Much more."
Misha swayed slightly as he stood, mumbling something in French that made Roche's smile tighten. "Excusez-moi," he slurred, taking an unsteady step toward the restrooms.
"I should freshen up as well," I said, squeezing Ash's thigh in our pre-arranged signal. "Won't be long, darling."
Roche's eyes followed me as I made my way across the club, but their security stayed put. Either they didn't consider me a threat, or they were too focused on watching Ash to notice.
The bathroom was all black marble and gold fixtures, empty except for Misha braced against the sink. Up close, the designer clothes couldn't hide how thin he was, how his hands shook as he splashed water on his face. Purple shadows bloomed beneath his makeup, not just from exhaustion. His wrists bore the kind of marks that came from restraints, and fresh track marks dotted the crooks of his elbows. Those weren't from his own choices. I recognized the precise, methodical placement. Roche was keeping him compliant, marking him in ways that wouldn't show on the runway.
"Here," I said softly, offering him a paper towel. "Let me help."
He startled at my voice, pupils so dilated I could barely see the green. The same eyes as Viktor, but clouded with whatever cocktail of drugs Roche used to keep him compliant. "I know you," he mumbled in heavily accented English. "From somewhere..."
"Shhh," I soothed, steadying him as he swayed. "You're safe. Just breathe."
"Not safe," he slurred, tears cutting through perfectly applied makeup. "Never safe. He'll find me. Always finds me."
My heart broke at the defeated certainty in his voice. I wanted to tell him everything— that we were here to help, that his father was worried, that he'd have somewhere to go. But in his current state, he wouldn't remember, anyway. And if Roche questioned him later...
"Stay alive," I whispered instead, squeezing his arm. "Whatever you have to do. Just stay alive."
He blinked at me slowly, fragments of understanding flickering through the drug haze. The click of the door handle was my only warning. I stepped back quickly, adjusting my dress in the mirror, making sure Roche would see exactly what they expected. I was just another vain club patron preening rather than someone passing messages to their pet.
"There you are, chéri," Roche's voice was silk over steel as they appeared in the doorway. "I was getting worried."
Two bodyguards flanked Roche, their presence turning the spacious bathroom claustrophobic.
"Just sharing beauty secrets," I said lightly, though my heart hammered against my ribs. "Your muse was kind enough to recommend his favorite products."
"How thoughtful." Roche's smile never reached their eyes as they crossed to us, wrapping an arm around Misha's waist. The younger man sagged against him, barely conscious now. "Though I'm afraid Misha isn't feeling his best. Perhaps we should continue this discussion tomorrow evening? When everyone is more... present."
The threat beneath his words was clear. I forced myself to smile, channeling every ounce of training into appearing oblivious. "Of course. Looking forward to it."
Ash was on his feet the moment I returned to Roche’s table, reading the tension in my shoulders. "Everything alright, precious?"
"Perfect," I purred, letting him pull me close. "Though I think we should head back to the hotel. I have some ideas I'd like to explore in private."
Roche's eyes followed us as we made our goodbyes, their hand never leaving Misha's throat. The possessive gesture wasn't just for show anymore. It was a warning.
The night air couldn't wash away the memory of Misha's drugged desperation as we slid into our waiting car. Anton's partner did another sweep for surveillance devices before I finally let myself crack.
"He's going to kill him," I whispered, remembering the possessive way Roche had gripped Misha's shoulder. "If we don't move fast enough..."
"We'll get him out," Ash promised, pulling me close. His touch was different now, less performative, more protective. "You did perfectly in there. Drew him in without seeming eager. Made him want to possess you while establishing clear boundaries." His lips brushed my temple. "My perfect weapon."
I leaned into his warmth, letting his presence chase away the chill of Roche's calculating gaze. We'd made contact, established our cover, confirmed Misha was alive if not exactly well. Phase one complete.
Now came the dangerous part: making Roche believe he could take what belonged to someone else. Making him believe I was just another beautiful thing waiting to be preserved in his collection.
Another buzz in my clutch. I checked my phone. Three missed calls from Xavier, plus a string of texts:
Xavier
At least tell me how the internship is going.
Xavier
Papa's worried too. You still haven’t called.
Xavier
Something feels off. You're never this distant.
Xavier
Fine. Do what you want. But we're not stupid, Dee.
I turned off the phone completely. Xavier's empathy had saved my life more than once. He'd been there through my worst episodes, talked me down when everything felt too much, too overwhelming. Now I was the one choosing to break that trust, to shut him out when he was clearly worried. But his gift for reading people was too dangerous right now. If he sensed what was really happening, he'd try to help, and the less he knew about this mission, the safer he'd be. Still, the guilt of betraying our always honest, always there for each other pact sat heavy in my chest.
The car wound through Paris's glittering streets, but I barely noticed the view. My mind was already racing ahead, planning the next phase of our dance with a killer. One wrong step and we could lose everything.