Chapter 19 Velvet and Gunfire #3
For a moment, we simply stayed there—tangled and breathless, the hush in the room loud with the aftermath. Malik’s hand stroked my hair, thumb brushing my jaw, and Viktor’s lips pressed to my hip, reverent, grateful. The world outside the door didn’t matter. Not for these precious stolen seconds.
Viktor was the first to speak, his voice quiet but carrying weight. “No one can know of this,” he said to Malik, gaze steady and unyielding. “Not a word. Not to anyone. Not ever.”
Malik met his eyes, the promise clear. “You have my word, boss. This doesn’t leave this room.”
A pulse of gratitude, of trust, passed between them.
Malik squeezed my shoulder one last time, a warm, grounding touch, then got to his feet and started adjusting his trousers, fast and efficient.
Viktor offered him a nod—something more than thanks, less than dismissal, but it was enough.
Malik slipped out the door, leaving nothing but the memory of heat and pleasure and wild, hungry satisfaction.
I sagged against Viktor’s chest, boneless and high, a lazy smile tugging at my lips. “We’re going to be late, you know,” I murmured, voice a broken whisper. “You’re going to have to explain this one to the whole palace if they notice.”
Viktor snorted, tucking himself away, hands gentle as he started helping me clean up—fetching tissues, fixing my shirt, straightening my tie, smoothing back my hair with careful, tender fingers.
“Worth it,” he muttered, a rare smile ghosting over his lips, all pride and wickedness and love. “Absolutely worth it.”
I grinned, still a little breathless, every inch of my skin tingling with satisfaction and the secret that now bound us even tighter. “Time to put on a show?” I asked, voice teasing as I tucked myself back into my trousers, fingers trembling only a little.
“Always is,” Viktor said, stepping back and scanning me from head to toe, making sure there was no evidence left, no sign of what we’d done but the flush on my cheeks and the way my lips felt bruised and swollen.
Together, we tidied ourselves—fixing cuffs, brushing off lint, making sure not a single hair or wrinkle betrayed what had happened.
Viktor handed me a fresh handkerchief, and I wiped my mouth, catching a last taste of them both before swallowing it down.
Malik’s scent lingered on my skin; Viktor’s touch still burned everywhere he’d held me.
Viktor reached for the door, his eyes finding mine, every word unspoken, every promise clear. “Ready?” he asked, voice gentle.
“Ready,” I replied, the mask slipping back into place, the prince reborn, but the secret smile never leaving my lips.
The Royal Opera House blazed like a bonfire in the heart of London, every chandelier lit, every window glowing gold against the night sky.
Press lined the red carpet in a wall of cameras and microphones, flashbulbs popping like gunfire, voices calling my name in a chorus that never quite sounded friendly.
“Prince Sebastian! This way!”
“Your Highness, can you comment on the recent security concerns?”
“Sebastian! Over here! Give us a smile!”
I smiled. Waved. Played the part I'd been rehearsing since birth. Prince Sebastian in navy velvet, perfectly tailored, perfectly harmless. The golden boy who'd survived too many attempts on his life to count and still showed up smiling.
Viktor shadowed me from three steps back, close enough to move if needed, far enough to maintain the illusion of professional distance.
Black suit that probably cost less than my cufflinks but looked more dangerous.
I felt his presence like heat, like gravity, pulling at me even when I couldn't see him.
Every camera flash made him tense. Every shout from the crowd triggered some micro-adjustment in his stance. He was wound tight enough to shatter, and we hadn't even made it inside yet.
Marcel appeared at the top of the stairs, immaculate in white tie, champagne flute in hand. His smile could've cut glass. Behind him, the doors stood open, spilling warmth and light and the distant sound of strings tuning.
“Your Highness,” he purred, offering a slight bow that managed to be both respectful and mocking. “You honor us with your presence.”
“Duke Marcel.” I kept my voice warm. Polite. Empty as a politician's promise. “Thank you for the invitation. I wouldn't miss it.”
His eyes slid past me to Viktor, and something flickered there. Amusement. Assessment. Recognition of a threat he thought he could neutralize. “And the ever-watchful Mr. Volkov. You're quite the spectacle together. The prince and his guardian angel.”
“Guardian demon,” Viktor corrected flatly. “Angels are not good at my job.”
Marcel laughed, delighted by the response like Viktor had just told the world's best joke.
“Fair point. Come, shall we? The performance begins in thirty minutes, but there are drinks, conversation, people simply dying to see you.” He gestured toward the entrance with his champagne flute, liquid gold catching the light.
“You won't want to miss the overture. Handel. Absolutely exquisite.”
I let him guide me inside, Viktor falling into step behind us like a shadow with teeth.
The opera house was obscene in its beauty.
Gold leaf covered every surface, reflecting candlelight until the whole space seemed to glow from within.
Red velvet curtains framed the stage where stagehands moved like ants, making final adjustments.
Chandeliers hung overhead like frozen fireworks, crystal catching light and scattering it into rainbows across marble floors.
But it was the people that made it overwhelming.
Hundreds of them, dressed in their finest, moving through the space like pieces in an elaborate chess game.
Old money in understated black. New money in colors that screamed for attention.
Foreign diplomats clustered in corners, conducting business in three languages.
Politicians pretending they cared about art while really here to be seen, to network, to build alliances over champagne and lies.
And every single one of them noticed when I walked in.
The crowd parted. Not dramatically. Just that subtle shift that happened whenever royalty entered a room. People turning. Conversations pausing mid-sentence. Eyes tracking my movement like I was prey or predator, depending on who was watching.
“Prince Sebastian!” A woman in emerald silk materialized at my elbow. Lady Pemberton. Parliament. Reform Committee. Sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous. “How wonderful to see you. You look well.”
“Lady Pemberton. You're very kind.”
“And your bodyguard.” Her eyes flicked to Viktor with the kind of assessment that made my spine straighten. “I've heard such intriguing things about the Sentinel Network. Quite the modern approach to security.”
“Modern problems require modern solutions,” Viktor said. His accent was thicker tonight, deliberately so. Playing up the foreign mercenary angle. Making himself seem less threatening by being more obviously other.
It was working. Lady Pemberton smiled, already dismissing him as hired muscle, and turned her attention back to me. “I do hope you'll save me a dance later. We have much to discuss about the new housing initiatives.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She drifted away, replaced immediately by Lord Ashford, then Ambassador Chen, then someone whose name I'd forgotten but whose handshake was too firm and whose smile showed too many teeth.
The conversations blurred together. Pleasantries and politics and thinly veiled questions about my father's health, about succession, about whether I'd consider marriage to this daughter or that niece. Everyone wanting something. Everyone performing.
I felt Viktor's presence at my back like an anchor. Like the only real thing in a room full of beautiful lies.
“You're doing well,” he murmured during a brief lull, voice low enough that only I could hear.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“Every person here wants something from me.”
“Not every person.” His hand brushed my lower back. Brief. Gone before anyone could see. But I felt it like a brand. “I only want you to survive the night.”
The orchestra finished tuning. The crowd began to shift, moving toward the main hall where the performance would take place. But the foyer remained full, people clustering around the bars, the hors d'oeuvres, each other.
A bell chimed. Soft. Insistent. Ten minutes to curtain.
“Your Highness.” Marcel reappeared with two more people I didn't recognize.
A man in his fifties with the bearing of military.
A woman younger than me in silver that looked like liquid mercury.
“I wanted to introduce you to Colonel Hartford and Miss Reeves.
They've been instrumental in coordinating the evening's security.”
I shook hands. Made appropriate noises. Watched Viktor's shoulders tighten incrementally at the word 'security.'
“Your Mr. Volkov has been quite thorough,” Colonel Hartford said, and it didn't sound like a compliment. “Very thorough indeed. Had my men double-check their protocols three times.”
“Thoroughness keeps people alive,” Viktor said.
“Indeed.” The Colonel's smile didn't reach his eyes. “Though some might call it paranoia.”
“Only people who have never been shot at.”
Miss Reeves laughed, bright and artificial. “Well, we certainly hope no one gets shot at tonight. That would rather ruin the performance.”
The crowd laughed with her. Polite. Performative. Like violence was something that happened elsewhere, to other people, and certainly not here in this temple to beauty and culture.
I caught Viktor's eye. Saw the calculation there. The way he was already mapping which of these smiling people could be threats. Which ones had access. Which ones stood too close or asked too many questions.
He didn't trust any of them.
Neither did I.
The bell chimed again. Five minutes.