Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Rowan
Couture was never designed for breathing; it was designed for impact.
The dress Stephen and Juno had procured for me was a structural marvel of black silk that absorbed the light around it.
It had a neckline that plunged with terrifying ambition and architectural shoulders that made me look less like a manager and more like a main character.
It was armor, pure and simple, but instead of Kevlar, I was wrapped in five thousand pounds of Italian attitude.
I stood in the foyer of the Tate Modern, adjusting the cuffs of a blazer I wasn't wearing, my fingers twitching for a clipboard that didn't exist.
"Stop checking your exits," a voice murmured beside my ear.
I turned. Juno was standing close enough that I should have been overwhelmed by his scent. But that was the terrifying thing about Juno tonight. There was nothing. No white tea. No sandalwood. No smoke.
He was an olfactory void. He had scrubbed his scent so thoroughly with industrial-grade blockers that standing next to him felt like standing next to a black hole. It wasn't the heavy, grounding silence of Mateo; it was a cold absence.
He wore a tuxedo that fit him with a fluidity that was almost obscene, the velvet jacket catching the gallery lights. He looked beautiful, ethereal, and utterly lethal.
"I’m not checking exits," I lied, smoothing the silk over my hip. "I’m assessing the structural integrity of the canapés."
Juno smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were gold coins, hard and currency-focused, scanning the room over my shoulder.
"You look like a verdict, Rowan," he said softly.
The compliment hit me in the solar plexus. It wasn't you look pretty. It was specific to the violence we were about to inflict.
"I feel like an imposter," I admitted, my voice low. "Everyone in this room generates headlines. I just generate invoices."
"That is precisely why you are the most dangerous person here," he corrected, turning his attention fully to me.
He reached out, his long, elegant fingers adjusting the diamond pendant resting against my sternum.
His touch was cool, impersonal, yet the proximity made the hair on my arms stand up.
"They function on ego. You function on receipts.
Do not let the lighting fool you, darling.
You are the only real thing in the building. "
He stepped back, flanked by the others.
To my left, Mateo was a mountain in a tuxedo, blocking the draft from the entrance.
He didn't look like a guest; he looked like a loaded weapon left on a velvet chair.
To my right, Stephen was shaking hands with a curator, his silver-rimmed glasses shielding eyes that were undoubtedly calculating the insurance liability of the installation.
"Moving out," Mateo rumbled, his ear-piece practically invisible. "Vance is in the Turbine Hall. He’s holding court near the sculpture."
"Excellent," Juno said. "Let’s go ruin his evening."
We moved as a unit. I was hyperaware of the formation. Mateo was the shield, taking point, clearing the path with his sheer mass. Stephen was the rearguard, smiling thinly at people he recognized from court documents.
But Juno... Juno was the gravity.
As we walked through the crowded gallery, I watched him work.
It was a masterclass in soft power. He didn't shove; he didn't weave.
He simply existed, and the crowd parted for him.
People looked at him, drawn by that strange, scentless magnetism.
He nodded to a fashion editor, winked at a streaming executive, held a gaze just long enough to make an Alpha investor stutter mid-sentence.
It was magnetic in a completely different way than Mateo’s blunt force or Stephen’s icy precision. Mateo commanded space because physics demanded it. Juno commanded space because he convinced the room that he was the only interesting thing in it.
He was orchestrating the atmosphere, tuning the frequency of the room until it hummed in his key. And I was walking right beside him, caught in the wake of his terrifying competence.
"Eyes up," Mateo said, his voice dropping an octave.
We breached the Turbine Hall. The space was cavernous, echoing with the murmur of London’s elite. And there, standing by a massive, twisted metal installation that looked like a car crash frozen in time, was Julian Vance.
He was laughing, holding a champagne flute, surrounded by a sycophantic cluster of junior agents and models. He looked polished. He looked untouchable.
Then he saw us.
The laughter died in his throat. He lowered the glass, his eyes locking onto me. For a second, I saw genuine shock. He expected me to be hiding in a hole in Surrey, not wearing five figures of silk at the social event of the season.
Then the shock curdled into a sneer. He excused himself from his circle and walked toward us, his stride aggressive, heavy with Alpha entitlement.
"Well," Vance said, stopping three feet away. His scent hit me first, cognac and expensive musk, cloying and arrogant. "The rat came out of the sewer."
I opened my mouth, a retort about waste management ready on my tongue, but Mateo took a half-step forward. He didn't touch Vance. He just put his shoulder between us, cutting Vance’s line of sight. The air pressure between them dropped instantly.
"Step back," Mateo said. It wasn't a request.
Vance scoffed, looking up at Mateo with a mixture of disdain and caution. "Call off the dog, Quill. You really brought hired muscle to an art opening? That’s tacky, even for a Beta."
He leaned around Mateo’s bulk, his eyes pinning me with a dismissive, pitying look.
"You look ridiculous," Vance said, gesturing to my dress with his free hand. "Playing dress-up won't save you, Rowan. You’re a glorified secretary who read a contract wrong. You don't belong here. You belong in a cubicle, filing my expenses."
My hands clenched at my sides. The shame flared hot and bright, the old insecurity, the voice that said he’s right, you’re just the help.
"Julian," a voice cut through the noise. Smooth. Melodic. Deadly.
Juno stepped out from my other side. He didn't look angry. He looked delighted.
He stepped into the space Vance had tried to claim, moving with a terrifying, liquid grace. Because Juno had no scent, Vance couldn't read him. I saw the confusion on Vance’s face, the primal unease of facing a predator he couldn't smell.
"Juno," Vance sneered, though his eyes darted nervously. "I heard you were handling the trash now. A step down from your usual clientele, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," Juno said, tilting his head, examining Vance like a biology slide. "I find waste management fascinating. Especially the recycling process."
Juno took a step closer, invading Vance’s personal bubble with an audacity that made the air crackle.
"For instance," Juno continued, his voice dropping to a conversational purr that was loud enough for the nearby circle to hear. "I was just reading about the Aurelius Foundation. Fascinating charity work, Julian. Truly inspiring."
Vance froze. The champagne glass in his hand tilted dangerously. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Juno smiled, showing too many teeth.
"Because according to the ledger, your consulting firm, Aegis, received three separate 'grants' from Aurelius last quarter.
Curious, considering Aurelius is supposed to be funding inner-city music programs, not offshore holding companies in the Caymans. "
The color drained from Vance’s face. It wasn't a slow fade; it was a plummet.
"You..." Vance sputtered, looking around to see who was listening. "That’s slander. I’ll have your license."
"Technically, it's racketeering," Juno corrected lightly, flicking an invisible piece of lint off Vance’s lapel.
"And we found the transaction logs for the scout you hired to film Rowan’s mother.
The payment routing number leads directly to your personal HSBC account. Sloppy, Julian. Really sloppy."
Juno leaned in, his lips inches from Vance’s ear, but his eyes locked on mine.
"You called her a secretary," Juno whispered, his voice ice-cold now. "But she just mapped your entire financial anatomy while you were busy picking out your tie. She isn't the help, Julian. She's the executioner. We're just the blade."
Vance took a step back. Then another. He looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time, I didn't see contempt. I saw fear.
He looked at the unmoving wall of Mateo, the silent, observing Stephen, and the smiling, scentless nightmare that was Juno.
"You're insane," Vance hissed. "All of you."
"Enjoy the party," Juno said cheerfully. "I hear the appetizers are deductible."
Vance turned and fled. He didn't walk away; he retreated, disappearing into the crowd toward the exits, checking his phone frantically as he went.
I let out a long, steady breath. My knees felt weak, not from fear, but from the adrenaline dump.
"Target neutralized," Mateo grunted, relaxing his stance by a fraction of an inch.
"Viscerally satisfying," Stephen noted, adjusting his glasses.
Juno turned to me. The shark-smile vanished, replaced by a cool, assessing gaze. He scanned my face, checking for cracks in the porcelain.
"Are you intact?" he asked.
"I'm..." I swallowed, the image of Vance’s terrified face burning in my mind. "I'm fine. He looked... small."
"He is small," Juno said. "You just finally have the right perspective."
He checked his watch, the moment over, the mask sliding back into place.
"We’ve made our appearance," Juno stated, his tone shifting back to clipped, professional efficiency. "The photos will be on the wire in ten minutes. The narrative is established: you are unbothered, wealthy, and protected. Now we leave before he calls his lawyers."
We turned to go.
As we moved toward the exit, presenting a unified wall of black silk and tailored wool against the flashing cameras, I felt a hand settle on the small of my back.
It was Juno.
His hand was warm through the silk of my dress. It wasn't a polite steering gesture. It was firm. Possessive. His fingers spread wide, the thumb pressing into the curve of my spine, branding me. It was a claim. Mine. With us.
My breath caught in my throat, a sharp hitch that had nothing to do with the corset and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming awareness of him. The heat of his palm seemed to burn straight through the couture armor.
I glanced up at him, my heart hammering a new, erratic rhythm.
Juno didn't look down. He was already looking at the exit, his phone pressed to his ear, his profile sharp and unyielding.
"Car out front in thirty seconds," he was saying into the device, his voice all business, cold and detached.
But his hand didn't move. He kept it there, anchoring me, guiding me out of the lion's den and into the night, united.