Natasha
The chandeliers flare bright gold after the shadow of that little salon, and for a heartbeat I have to blink against the brightness.
The orchestra swells, the crowd shifts, and we’re moving again.
Him with the easy prowl of a man who owns the ground under his feet, me on his arm like a prize he’s just claimed.
On the surface I match him, step for step. Head high. Mask steady. Not a single tremor to betray what just passed between us. Inside, though, my mind is a whir of gears.
I should pull away. I should disappear into the crowd before this goes any further. I should forget a solid story to destroy a world and just leave. But every instinct screams that if I let go now, I’ll lose the best lead I’ve ever had.
I glance sideways at him. He’s not gloating. Not leering. Just a calm, unreadable line of a mouth under that silver mask, eyes dark and fixed ahead. And the strangest thing is how easily the crowd parts for him.
We reach the edge of the ballroom and he stops. Not at the doors, as I half hoped, but at the foot of a grand staircase I didn’t notice before, curving upward into shadows lit by a single flickering sconce. Guests glance our way, whisper, then quickly look elsewhere.
“You enjoy an audience,” I say lightly, though my voice sounds a touch too dry to my own ears.
“An audience enjoys me,” he replies, equally light.
I squeeze his arm a fraction tighter, smile at a passing couple, and lower my voice. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere quieter,” he says. “You wanted a story.”
Quieter. My pulse stutters. He’s giving me exactly what I wanted, access, proximity, and every survival instinct I’ve ever had is telling me to run. But I came here to peel the mask off this world. If I back down now, I may never get this close again.
“All right,” I say. My own voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Lead the way.”
He releases my arm but his hand slides down to my lower back, guiding me up the staircase. Warmth seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, a steady weight that says I’m in control. Every step echoes on the marble, each one sounding like a decision I can’t undo.
At the landing we pass two men in plain black suits. Their masks are simpler, heavier. Not guests. Guards. One of them gives a small nod as we go by.
I keep my head angled just so, letting my eyes flick without moving them. Hallway. Heavy doors spaced far apart. Sconces shaped like torch flames. The faint smell of cigar smoke and expensive polish.
“You have a reputation,” I say, to fill the space and keep myself thinking.
“Do I?” he says, amused.
“They say the son of…” I pause. Deliberately. “…of a very powerful man is here tonight. Looking for a wife.”
His fingers press fractionally harder into my back. “And you think that’s me?”
“I think you don’t look like a man who has to look for anything.”
He chuckles. “You’re bold, little dove. Most women would be silent right now.”
“I’m not most women.”
“No,” he says, and there’s something almost like satisfaction in his tone. “You’re not.”
We reach a door at the end of the hall. He opens it with a twist of his ring, like it’s his own private keycard. Inside, the air is warm and still, a private suite with dark velvet drapes and a balcony beyond. The sound of the orchestra becomes a distant murmur.
I step in before he can guide me. If he wants me here, I’m going to look like it’s my choice.
“This is where you bring all your women?” I ask, taking in the armchairs, the little bar, the single crystal decanter half full of amber liquid.
“No,” he says simply. “This is where I bring the ones who matter.”
The door clicks shut behind us.
For the first time all night, a tremor of unease slides down my spine. Not because he’s close, even though he is, but because I realize how deep I’m in now. There’s no crowd, no noise, no safety net. Just him, me, and the story I thought I wanted.
He crosses to the bar and pours two fingers of liquor into a glass. He sets it in front of me without a word. I don’t touch it.
I shake my head. I already made my point about my instincts earlier.
“You’ll need them,” he says, knowing my meaning.
He sets his own glass down and comes closer until he’s just inside my personal space, near enough that I can feel the heat of him. “You’ve been watching,” he says softly. “Taking notes in your head. Deciding what to write later.”
The breath catches in my throat before I can stop it. “What makes you think I’m writing anything?”
He tilts his head. “Because I’ve seen that look before. In men. In killers. In my own reflection. That’s not curiosity, little dove. That’s hunger.”
I keep my chin high. “And what if it is?”
“Then you’d better hope you’re hungrier than me,” he says.