Chapter 16
REBEL
The voice behind Carter says, “Funny thing about secrets, they always come due,” and my feet stop like I’ve hit black ice.
I don’t blink, nor do I breathe. I track the angle of the barrel pressing into Carter’s back, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand lifts, empty and patient. The chandeliers drip light, violins skate over money. No one notices we’re a heartbeat from bleeding out on marble.
“Smile, Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Carter says without moving his mouth. “We’re rich and bored.”
“Bored is dead,” I murmur. “Tilt right on three.”
Divine’s whisper hisses in my ear. “Rebel, do not engage. I repeat, do not…”
“Three,” I say, and fling my champagne flute.
It arcs like a glittering comet and detonates against the gunman’s wrist. Carter twists, catches the pistol, snaps the slide with a clean, brutal motion that’s part dance, part war.
The man snarls, tries to head-butt, but Carter gives him the wall instead.
House security hesitates, eyes glancing toward the donors before they act, trained to protect wallets before lives.
The quartet plays on like they’re paid not to notice.
Screams bloom a second later, like flowers after a frost. Security starts shouting. A donor shouts for his driver, as if money can valet the apocalypse.
Something small and plastic skitters under the buffet. I drop to a knee and snatch it up. It’s a gold-edged keycard with the Emerge insignia. Thank you, universe.
“Subtle,” Carter says, panting.
“Effective,” I counter, already moving. “And you’re welcome.”
Divine rasps in my ear. “Congratulations, you’re a live-streamed scandal. Gentry’s moving. North corridor in fifteen. That card gets you through his suite door, not the terminal. Terminal needs a six-digit physical passcode plus biometric. Copy that?”
“Copy,” I say. “You get me inside. I’ll get us the rest.”
“Working on it. Also, you’re about to get eyes.”
“Let them look,” I mutter, rising into a smile that shows teeth. “I’m dressed for it.”
Carter falls in beside me, adjusting his cufflinks, expression bland enough to sell a lie to a saint. “If anyone asks, you tripped. I rescued you. We’re very grateful to the foundation for providing such… slippery marble.”
“Mm,” I say. “I’ll make sure your heroism gets a plaque.”
We fold into the chaos like it’s a second skin.
The musicians swell into a waltz, of course they do, money loves tradition, and the crowd settles, eager to forget.
We drift with them, then against them, angling toward the north hall.
Gentry dressed in a sleek, gray, tailored suit is unbothered, laughing near a display of silent auction lots, his security spaced like clock hands.
French chuckles in my ear. “Show time, sugar. Give ’em the pretty.”
“I always give the pretty.”
“You always give the knife,” Raven corrects, cool as winter. “Try not to confuse the two.”
“Ladies,” Allura warns, warmth wrapped in steel. “Eyes on mission. Rebel, breathe.”
Breathe. Right. I do, and the air tastes like perfume and the copper of nerves.
Carter’s fingers brush my waist, light as a promise. “Dance with me,” he says.
“We’re working.”
“Exactly.” He nods toward Gentry. “We need three rotations to cross his line. Four to clip the decoy port. Five for the handoff. You waltz, I steal. We exit smiling.”
I arch a brow. “You choreograph all your crimes?”
“Only the ones that matter.”
I put my hand in his. Heat snaps up my arm, quick and disloyal. He draws me in, palm firm at the small of my back, bodies aligning like a plan coming clean. The floor turns beneath us. Silk whispers. The world narrows to music and breath and the steady, infuriating calm of the man holding me.
“Left,” he murmurs, and I pivot. “Head high.”
“You planning to boss me through the whole revolution?”
“Only the parts where bullets would ruin your dress.”
“My dress is already a write-off,” I say, and he laughs under his breath, low, unguarded. It lands somewhere just under my ribs and stays.
We turn, then turn again. On the third rotation, we ghost past the silent-auction table. Carter’s sleeve brushes the edge. A cufflink catches. To anyone else, it’s nothing. To us, it’s the micro-drive kissing the disguised USB port under the table lip.
Divine breathes, “Connected. Download live. Ninety seconds.”
“Keep me on your left,” Carter says, voice so close it’s almost inside my ear. “Security at four o’clock.”
“I see them.” I smile like a woman who has never stolen anything but attention.
“Rebel,” he says, a warning and a request.
“I know.”
We shift through another slow turn. People glitter and gossip, rich laughter clinks like ice. My heartbeat cranks up and refuses to come back down.
“Your hands are shaking,” he says softly.
“Yours isn’t.”
“It is,” he says, and it’s true. I feel it, the tiniest tremor against my spine. “Just not where anyone can see.”
We pass the table again.
Divine. “Fifty seconds. Secondary handshake initiated. Stand by for the passcode prompt. Gentry is wearing a biometric ring. I need his proximity within fifteen feet.”
“So the keycard gets us through the door,” Carter mumbles, “but that ring unlocks the system handshake.”
“Bring him to us,” I say.
“I can’t puppet a banker,” Divine snaps. “But I can light a fire under his ego.”
Somewhere across the ballroom, a donor’s phone explodes with a notification of breaking news about Emerge’s charitable initiatives. Heads turn. Gentry turns with them, drawn by his own name like a moth to money. He drifts exactly where we need him.
“Good girl,” French purrs.
“Say that again and I’m cutting your mic,” Divine says, but she sounds pleased.
All my sisters in my head is giving me a headache. I can’t imagine how Carter feels. But this is the way of the Royal Harlots. When one needs help, we all help.
Carter pivots me into a lilt that looks like flirtation and feels like cover. “Passcode on your three,” he whispers. “Watch the screen.”
A number pad winks into life on the embedded tablet under the table’s polished edge. Carter’s hand slides lower on my back, closer than a lie, warmer than I want to admit, and I forget the number for a heartbeat because his thumb draws one slow circle where silk ends and skin begins.
“I need you focused,” he says.
“I am focused,” I reply, and my voice is steady enough to make it true. “On the job.”
“Right.” He smiles that trouble smile. “On the job.”
The pad flashes. Six digits blossom in ghost-white, then fade. Muscle memory snaps. I tap the sequence with a fingertip as we pass, never breaking cadence.
Divine. “Got it. We’re in. Thirty seconds to mirror. Hold.”
“What exactly did we grab?” I whisper.
“Master passcodes, internal ledgers, black fund transfers, the whole rot,” Divine answers with excitement in her voice. “Enough to sink Emerge twice.”
We cross into the clear, out of sightlines, and I let my forehead drift toward Carter’s just enough to feel his breath. “We’re making a scene,” I say.
“We are the scene,” he states, and I hate that he’s right. We turn, and my body freezes, like a tide finding its moon.
Bones.
He’s on the mezzanine, shadow cutting him into sharper edges, suit off the rack, attention surgical.
His right arm stays close to his side, movement tight.
He’s hurt, but still deadly. Our eyes lock, and for a second, the ballroom drops away.
He looks at me like he’s counting exits and sins.
The skull on his back isn’t a patch tonight, it’s a choice.
“Carter,” I whisper.
He follows my gaze. The muscle in his jaw goes hard. His hand firms at my waist. “Of course he’s here.”
“Divine,” I breathe.
“I see him,” she says. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t invite him. Ten seconds, kids. Do not blow my window.”
I shouldn’t look back, but I do anyway. Bones’ mouth shapes my name without sound. There’s something like an apology in it. Or warning.
Then I see a shimmer of red, small as a heartbeat. It blooms over my sternum like a wicked wish. For a fraction of a second, my brain splinters between run, or drop, and draw. The math of distance and death runs itself.
Carter moves first. One violent step, a twist, a shove. The world tips. Crystal detonates. The violinists falter, a bow squeals, someone screams. The whole chorus panics. Heat kisses past my shoulder and bites into Carter instead.
We hit the floor in a tangle of silk and bone. Carter’s breath leaves him in a raw sound that rips something open in me. Blood spreads through his tux, dark, stubborn, expensive as any truth we’ve told tonight.
“Stay down,” he grinds, already pushing up, already putting himself between me and the firing line. “Rebel, stay…”
“Shut up,” I interrupt, because the alternative is screaming.
I roll, drag him behind a pillar, and press both hands into his shoulder. His eyes are glassy, jaw set against pain.
Divine shouts in my ear. “Sniper in the mezz. Secondary shooters at the west entrance. Sloane, lights!”
The chandeliers hiccup, then dim, throwing the room into a low, glamorous hell. French’s voice slices through the comms. “Security cosplay, activate. Raven, with me.”
The crowd surges, radiant cattle in jewels. Carter’s blood is hot under my palms. I don’t look at his face because if I do, I’ll fall apart in a way bullets can’t fix.
“You’re okay,” I lie.
He bares his teeth in something like a smile. “You’re bossy.”
“Damn right.” I rip a strip from my gown’s inner lining and pack the wound. He doesn’t make a sound.
Bone-white light stutters across the mezzanine. A muzzle flash. Return fire cracks, mean and efficient.
Bones.
I know his rhythm like I know mine. Two beats, shift, one beat. A man screams. The red dot skips off the pillar and vanishes.
“Download complete,” Divine snaps. “Drive is free. Get out.”
“Not without the body attached to this blood,” I say, and Carter huffs something that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt.