Chapter 9
ALLISON
T he last night of the masquerade breathes through chandeliers and perfume, a living thing clothed in silk and secrets.
Saltmoor's ballroom glows as though fire has been trapped in glass, and every mask is a dare.
My pulse keeps time with the quartet. Nolan shadows me, his gaze scanning arcs of the room with military precision.
When his hand closes over mine, it's both command and comfort.
Tonight I wear a gown of midnight satin, the glow from chandeliers sliding over it until the fabric gleams like liquid stars.
The skirts move with me in long, fluid lines, elegant at first glance but cut so I can weave through a crowd or sprint if I have to.
Under the boned bodice sits the hidden weight of body armor, snug against my ribs, a secret layer of steel beneath silk.
My mask rises in a sweep of black and silver feathers, dramatic and watchful, giving me the look of someone untouchable even whilst I take in every detail.
Nolan is at my side in a tailored suit, his dark mask stark against his skin. He doesn't need theatrics—he wears the role of predator with quiet ease, scanning the room like it belongs to him.
"Ease the glare," he murmurs.
"If they feel uneasy, I've done my job," I reply. But the slashed replica mask is still fresh in my mind, a reminder that someone is toying with us.
His dark eyes catch mine. "You're rattled."
"I'm not," I lie. The denial tastes thin.
Ryan and Candace glide through their guests with practiced elegance, the kind that comes from years of moving in powerful circles.
Candace leans in with a warm laugh that puts nervous donors at ease, whilst Ryan's easy charm and steady hand keep the edges of the night smooth.
They are unshaken, calm in the center of artifice, radiating a composure that steadies the room.
Watching them reminds me why I'm here: to protect, not to doubt.
The thought anchors me, even as it hones the sharp edge of vigilance cutting beneath the glamour.
Nolan pulls me onto the floor, the strength in his grip both steadying and maddening. My pulse kicks harder as the music swells, every eye in the room a weight on my shoulders. I'm supposed to be watchful, detached, but the heat of his palm at my waist drags me into the rhythm.
"Blend," he murmurs, guiding me into the sweep of the dance. "Dance." The command winds through me, equal parts order and invitation, leaving me caught between resistance and the guilty thrill of giving in.
I force a smile and let him guide me, his palm steady at my back as we glide between glittering gowns and jeweled masks.
The ballroom gleams like a trap baited with champagne and secrets, every laugh too loud, every glance weighted.
My pulse drums with the music as I track movements, eyes sweeping over doors and exits.
Then a man in silver steps into my space, the shine of his mask catching the light as he leans too close. "Pretty guard dog," he slurs, obviously drunk.
My hand drops, but Nolan is faster. He twists the man's wrist and sends him stumbling, passing it off as clumsy theatrics. Guests laugh, unaware.
"Alcove," Nolan growls, steering me into the shadows.
I shove against his chest. "Don't hijack my op."
"I'm not taking over," he says firmly, his voice dropping low against my ear. "I'm keeping you, the mask, and the Murphys safe."
"I am not..."
His mouth claims mine, the kiss scorching away words and reason until I'm left stripped of defenses, caught off guard by the force of him.
My body betrays me, arching closer, desperate for more of him.
The alcove swallows the laughter and music beyond, cocooning us in a hush where every breath feels dangerous.
His hunger is fierce, but beneath it lies a reverence that rattles me even more than the heat itself.
His hands are strong but deliberate, holding me with certainty whilst his touch lingers with care.
It feels less like he wants to consume me and more like he means to claim and keep me, and that quiet gentleness is what nearly undoes me.
When he eases back, my breath shudders. "You have no idea what you've started."
"Then I'll learn. One night at a time." His lips brush my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."
The truth of how much I want to believe him terrifies me, because letting myself trust means lowering walls I've kept standing for years, and I don't know if I can survive what happens if he ever walks away.
His hand cups my jaw, tilting me back into another kiss.
This one is slower, meant to claim, meant to reassure.
My nails drag over his shoulders, and he groans, low and raw.
His tie loosens under my fingers. He catches my wrist, presses a kiss to my palm, then pins it against the wall with a strength that makes me tremble.
"Not like this," he rasps. "Not rushed. The next time I take you, I want all of you."
My pulse hammers, heat flooding through me in a way I can't disguise.
I tell myself to resist, to hold the line, but the words die before they form.
I give the smallest nod, a silent surrender.
Satisfaction sparks in his eyes as he eases back, fingers brushing my jaw one last time before he straightens his tie with deliberate calm, like a man in control of both the room and me.
I don't move. I hook two fingers in his lapel and tug him back into the shadow. "You started it," I whisper. "Finish it."
His answer is a quiet command. "Turn."
Heat surges through me. I brace my palms on the cool stone and feel his chest at my back, solid and unyielding.
His hands find the folds of my ballgown, sliding beneath the heavy satin with patient purpose.
He traces the line of my thigh through layers of silk, learning my shape as he maps hip, waist, the curve of my body.
My breath grows shallow. He noses my hair aside and sets his mouth at the place where neck meets shoulder.
The first drag of his teeth makes my knees weaken, the gown rustling around us like a secret.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says.
"I won't."
"Good. Quiet now."
One hand clamps my wrists and pins them above my head.
I should be furious, but relief shocks through me—relief at not carrying the weight alone, if only for a heartbeat.
That admission rattles me more than the heat of his touch.
His other hand finds the hem again and slides higher.
Silk whispers against my skin. Cool air ghosts over where he's warmed me.
He presses me into the wall with the flat of his body, and in that pressure I feel ownership and something softer braided together.
I lean into him. He laughs low and pleased, certain, and the sound rolls through me.
Footsteps pass the mouth of the alcove. Music swells. He stills and I hold my breath, pulse racing. When the corridor empties, his hand returns to the task, stroking a path that sets sparks racing. He cups me through thin fabric and I bite my lip to keep in the sound that wants out.
"Open for me," he murmurs.
I shift my stance, thighs parting just enough to invite him closer.
His hand moves again, slower, more deliberate, each stroke coaxing a sharper ache from me.
He studies every reaction, reading the stutter of my breath, the shiver in my muscles, giving me exactly what I crave with no wasted motion.
Heat climbs higher until my legs quiver, the strength in them unsteady.
He holds me fast, one hand locked around my wrists, the solid press of his body pinning me in place, his control steady whilst mine slips further away.
"Look at me."
I turn my head, looking back over my shoulder. His eyes are dark and steady. There's heat there, and something that looks far too much like emotion. It undoes me more than his fingers do.
He turns me around and kisses me as his hand drives me closer to the edge, swallowing the sounds I cannot hold back.
The kiss turns greedy, tangled with the knowledge that this is reckless and far too risky in the middle of a masquerade.
I know I should stop, but I don't care—not as long as his hand keeps moving, each stroke pulling me tighter against him.
My hips seek his touch and he hums his approval into my mouth, urging me higher.
"Now," he says, voice rough.
Release tears through me in a silent cry. I shake against the wall, clinging to him, mouth locked to his to keep from giving us away. He holds me there, carrying the weight, riding out the tremors until I sag back into his arms.
He eases my wrists down and smooths my dress with careful hands. His mouth finds my temple. "That's mine," he says, quiet and sure.
"Arrogant," I manage, breathless and wrecked.
"Accurate," he counters, gentling me with touch until I find my feet again. He takes out a handkerchief, efficient as any gentleman in a war zone, and sets me to rights. When I finally trust my knees, he lifts my chin with two fingers.
"The next time I take you to bed, I don’t want there to be any interruptions," he promises. "Tonight we work. But I needed this. You needed this."
"Don't tell me what I need," I say, but the edge has no bite. I catch his mouth in a quick, fierce kiss that tastes of defiance and need before I force myself to step back, breath ragged and body still leaning toward him even as I put space between us.
We re-arm in silence, his fingers brushing mine as he ensures my body armor is in place. My hands shake more than I’d like. “Adrenaline dump,” I mutter, half embarrassed. He just says, “Normal,” and tells me about a mission where his whole team shook the same way. Not weakness—just survival.