Chapter 30 Jordan
Jordan
The car devours the night, a silent predator with prey already in its grasp.
Beside me, Kirill sits behind the wheel, his profile carved from some dark, shatterproof material.
In my desperation to hide their trembling, I knot my hands in my lap. Ahead, my mother’s estate, the place I once clawed my way free from and swore never to return to again, rises.
Now I’m about to barrel right into one of my worst nightmares with a killer by my side. The two of us are bound together by nothing more than necessity.
His hands flex on the wheel, his knuckles blanching. After the tenth time, he breaks the silence like a gunshot. “What’s my name again?”
“Ken Barlow. You sell commodities. You find everything everyone says utterly fascinating.”
I rest my gaze on his profile and take in the sharpened angles of his cheek and jaw and the relentless motion of his eyes as they scour for trouble.
He snorts. “Right. Fascinating.” The word is an insult, a bitter pill he won’t bother to sugarcoat.
Once we give the guards my name, we pass right through the motorized gates.
Trust my mother to always leave the door open, knowing she can lock it from the inside.
The estate sprawls ahead, every window lit, the whole place glowing like fool’s gold in the darkness.
The first floor features fogged glass that I know can become clear or opaque at the flick of a switch.
The well-lit windows on the second floor pour useless illumination from unoccupied rooms. A basic, wasteful show of wealth.
My chest tightens. This was home, then prison. The structure represents anguish and ruin, yet here I am. Bringing the past I’d rather forget into my present.
Pointing, I direct Kirill to the “guest door” closest to the great room that spills out onto the back lawn via sliding glass wall panels.
As if he couldn’t find it with the line of cars and valets racing back and forth. Servants to take care of everything so no one has to do the tedious work. Like parking, walking, or thinking.
Kirill’s out before I even reach for my clutch. With a quick toss, he passes a valet key to the attendant who’s jogging over.
Then, despite his tense posture, Kirill opens my door in a smooth movie star-like motion. After he helps me out, he rests a hand on the small of my back.
Through my dress, his energy crackles against my skin, a live current masked by expensive fabric.
“Try to smile.” I doubt my own expression passes for anything but terror. “The car will be parked on the other side of that hill, out of sight but not far.” I figure knowing the fastest getaway route will help him stay calm.
His mouth twitches in a shadow of a smile so brittle, a light breeze would shatter the illusion.
We climb the marble steps, each heel-strike echoing like a countdown. Closer, closer, the entrance yawns ahead.
The party noise bleeds through the doors, all the crystal laughter, honeyed voices, and strings playing ghosts from my memory.
Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and my footsteps stutter.
Kirill’s palm curves firmly into my lower back, propelling me forward.
A reminder that we have a mission.
We’re here for the safe, and nothing else matters.
Once we step through the threshold of the open doors, the crowd swallows us whole. There’s no turning back now.
The ballroom is an aquarium of light, crystal dripping from the chandeliers like stalactites, every surface gleaming.
Hundreds of people move in predictable, predatory currents.
Air kisses. Champagne toasts. The glittering industry of status.
Expensive spices and perfumes all mingle into a nausea-inducing cloud of scent.
Half the faces I know from the society columns.
The rest, I recognize from my nightmares.
Conversation mutes the clack of countless heels on white marble. Heavy tapestries and oil paintings line the walls, dampening the reverb and disguising the cold emptiness of the space.
I suck in a breath.
I can do this.
As we enter the gala, the voices keep flowing, but now there are eddies. Heads turn as eyes catch and dart away. People sense the difference in Kirill. Even under perfect tailoring, they smell the threat.
By my side, Kirill radiates otherness.
Dresses and suit legs part, swirl, and shift as the crowd notes our presence and weighs our worth.
Under the rows of blazing, heatless chandeliers, on the backdrop of manicured lawns and priceless artwork, we are measured, scrutinized, evaluated, and catalogued.
A big man with a politician’s handshake and a donor’s smile approaches us first. Senator Hargrove. My mother’s favorite muscle in the state legislature.
“Jordan Thorne!” His booming greeting, loud enough to draw more stares, reeks of bourbon and campaign trail.
“As I live and breathe. It’s wonderful to see you, my girl!
” My hand disappears in both of his, squeezed too hard.
Then he shifts to Kirill, his fingers outstretched. “And who might this be?”
I dig my nails into Kirill’s arm. Play along. Don’t break the guy. He’s just a politician.
For a second, Kirill hesitates, his jaw going rigid. But then he reaches out and engulfs the senator’s offered hand. The smile on Hargrove’s face flickers and cracks.
“Ken Barlow. Commodities.” A beat passes, like he’s flipping through a script. “Fascinating.”
The word just lies between us, flat, final, and awkward as hell.
I suppress a hysterical giggle.
We just got here, and it’s already a nightmare.
Senator Hargrove reclaims his hand and rubs his fingers. “A…firm grip you’ve got there, Ken.” He glances at me with wide eyes. “Well, I’m sure your mother will be thrilled to see you both. If you’ll excuse me…”
He vanishes, folding himself back into the swarm.
If the floor opened up, I’d be the first to jump.
Before, I could use my youth to hide along the walls or duck behind the staff as a sort of camouflage since no one ever looks at the uniformed men and women walking among them.
Now I’m front and center while everyone whips around to inspect the newest intrigue.
“Okay, Ken Barlow. How about a little less intimidation and a little more charm?” I herd Kirill deeper into the crowd, one hand clamped to his arm like a leash. “Stop scanning the exits. People will start to think you’re casing the place.”
Kirill tenses beneath my grip before huffing an annoyed breath. “So bossy. And I am casing the place.”
I squeeze his arm. “I’m serious,” I mumble out of the corner of my mouth. “You can look at people, but don’t look for too long. Glance away before returning to them. And for heaven’s sake, don’t forget to blink.”
“If you keep giving me orders like that, I’ll start casing the joint for a quiet corner where I can bend you over.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Shut up, shark.”
He replies by quirking his lips.
His public-facing smile still requires some practice, but I appreciate the attempt.
He needs this to work, and part of me knows it’s not just to get access to the safe.
He wants to follow my instructions. Partner with me.
If only he believed in energy cleansing. This would have been so much easier.
I attempt to throw him a bone he’ll understand. “Same with the security guys. You’re freaking them out.”
One of the guards by the entrance is already zeroing in.
Kirill dips his chin. Message received.
I nod toward a tray drifting past on a server’s hand. “Pretend you’re enjoying the tiny salmon thing.”
He ignores the tiny salmon thing.
So do I, for that matter.
But beneath the surface, I sense a shift.
Without warning, he starts steering me with invisible pressure toward a shadowed alcove beside a service door. A good defensive position. With his back to the wall, he can see the entrance and the stairs. Classic Kirill.
I dig in my heels.
He stiffens, his muscles tautening and coiling for violence beneath my touch.
“No.” I lean into him. “We’re not hiding in the shadows. We’re going out there. You’re my cover.”
His jaw tics with disbelief, or maybe annoyance.
He struggles with my directive, because it’s not his way, before he yields. Then he gives one curt nod and falls in beside me.
For the first time, I realize he’s not a weapon tonight. He’s a guest. At most, a shield.
And he’s having a tough time handling the change.
For a brief moment, guilt stabs at my chest. He shouldn’t have to pretend to be something he’s not.
I hate that I’ve dragged him into this world. I wish we could both run right out that door and never return.
But neither of us have the luxury of getting what we want right now.
We have a job to do.
Sliding through the crowd, we try our best not to draw attention to ourselves.
I know that at this point in the party, my mother waits in the center, engineering every glance and gesture. Playing the perfect hostess, as always.
My heart pounds, echoing in my ears as my gaze lands on her.
This is it.
The moment we can’t undo.
We’re walking into the spotlight, both of us in necessary roles that don’t quite fit us.
Eleanor Hearst is poised at the heart of her circle, a diamond among dignitaries.
A delicate updo sits at the back of her head, a few carefully chosen loose strands framing her cheeks.
Her navy cocktail dress, complemented by subtle makeup, shimmers in the chandelier light.
She holds champagne in one hand and drapes the other on the governor’s sleeve.
She laughs at his quiet remark, her head tilted back just enough for the jewels at her throat to glint in the light like stars trapped against skin.
Time hasn’t touched her. She’s still beautiful.
Untouchable.
And impossible to satisfy.
Familiar rage surges through me, biting and hot as ever. For years, I’ve carried this same anger like a second skin.
This woman chose polish and chilly perfection over warmth and love. She tried to wipe my father from the face of the earth as completely as she might blot a red-wine spill from silk.
Kirill picks up on my mood shift instantly. “You found her?”