Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
I’m in.
Or I’m someplace close enough that my pulse can’t tell the difference.
Alistair leads me through a hidden door tucked inside a bedroom closet, and the whole multilevel party with its inebriated guests and private art show fades into the smoke and mirrors it always was. This must be his inner circle.
The secret room is bigger than Evie’s entire apartment, but closes in fast, the way I imagine a velvet-lined casket might if you’re being buried alive.
The air is thick. Dark wood paneling and green velvet furniture look designed to swallow sound.
Edison bulbs cast sick warmth over the polish, the shadows, and nine fit, well-groomed men.
Alistair’s inner circle is a trophy case filled with the guys he’s broken.
Except.
Is that Catan?
“Oh, heyyy!”
A guy in a lemon-yellow button-down waves, arm extended over a game board circled by four men. They’re all dressed—actually dressed—more than anyone outside. Cold air skims over my nipples, and I’m suddenly aware of my outfit. Or lack thereof.
He grins, but his eyes are sharper than his bubbly greeting. They flick from Alistair’s hand at my waist to my bare chest, then back to my face, and something in me wants to make him look again.
“This is Marcus,” Alistair says, keeping one hand firm on my lower back. “Our newest guest.”
The others barely look up, which means arriving like this is somehow unremarkable, but the one who waved rises from his seat and crosses the room with a bounce. He’s got highlighter-blue eyeshadow and an energy like a fizzy drink that makes the rest of the room feel flat.
“I’m Jake.” He catches my hand in a warm, two-handed shake. “Can I get you a drink? Something stronger? We just started, so if you wanna join, we’ll start over.”
“Jake, you don’t have to personally welcome every new guy,” one of the players says.
“I’m aware,” Jake says.
“I don’t need to play, thanks,” I say. “But I’ll take a drink.”
Alistair pats my stomach and disappears back through the closet, leaving me alone. Unsupervised and inside.
Find the inner circle: check. Now all I have to do is get proof and get out.
Without my phone’s camera, my first idea is to bring back Evie a sheep card from the game.
“This is… surreal,” I say, stepping toward the bar.
“Totally.” Jake slides behind the counter to scan its well-stocked shelves. He moves with an easy rhythm that makes everyone outside this room look like extras. “Alistair’s got everything,” he says. “So what’ll it be?”
If this really is the inner circle, I need to tread carefully. Ordering another Pbr feels a bit too much like showing up shirtless to a black-tie affair. Not that I’m in a position to judge.
“Sazerac?” I ask.
He wrinkles his nose. “That sounds expensive.”
“Corpse Reviver?”
“That sounds cursed.” He laughs, quick and unguarded, then tucks the joy back behind his grin.
“How about a French 75?”
“You’re wildly overestimating me. Whisky Coke?”
My own smile slips past careful calculation. “Perfect.”
“First nights are always weird,” he says, like he’s talking about freshman orientation. “I mean, creepy lighting, leather, and velvet? I was practically losing it.”
His relaxed tone must be conditioning. That or there’s even more I don’t understand than I thought.
He hands me the drink, and our fingers brush.
It should be nothing, especially after Alistair’s hands were everywhere, but Jake’s skin is warmer than mine.
The contact lasts half a second too long, or maybe I only notice it too hard.
Either way, I bury Wilder’s next smile in my glass and wince at the near absence of Coke.
“Good, right?”
“Jake! It’s your turn” is shouted from the table.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Jake flashes them a heart with his fingers, then turns back, blue shadow and white liner making his eyes glitter.
“You cold?”
He leans over to snag a jacket off a stool, and up close he’s sturdier than the glitter suggests, pretty-boy camouflage over something tougher.
He drapes the garment over my shoulders, but his hand remains on my arm, thumb pressing slowly into my bicep before he lets go.
The jacket feels kind and grounding, unlike Alistair’s touch.
Whatever his thumb is doing feels considerably less charitable.
“There. You. Go.”
My skin heats. Because of the jacket.
“My outfit made more sense out there,” I mumble.
“Never apologize for looking like that. I mean, shit.”
“Jake!” another player calls.
He winks at me and skips back to his seat at the game, saying something that makes the other players laugh.
Evie would be crushed. The inner circle is the most wholesome corner of the whole party. What happened to mind games and an evil genie? What about that artist Alistair gutted just to watch him squirm?
Nobody else bothers to introduce themselves, leaving me to lean against the bar, sip my drink, and soak up the room.
There are ten of us, including me.
This room hums with a familiarity that the party lacked.
There’s affection here. History marked by inside jokes and comfortable silences.
The biggest guy here, the only one I’d consider an enforcer if people tried to bolt, is reading a book under a lamp.
Two others chat quietly on the couch, occasionally flicking me glances that feel more curious about the shirtless new guy than hostile. Another is napping.
If something dark is lurking here, it’s well hidden.
My glass empties faster than intended, and Jake notices immediately.
“I got you, boo.”
He glides back behind the bar, mouth tilted a little sideways this time—flirtier. In the low light, he could almost look familiar. Handsome enough to be a model or a social media influencer, and definitely someone who knows the power of his smile.
My eyes sting, and I realize I’m staring.
“You okay?” he asks, offering the drink and a conspiratorial whisper. “I find it helps to imagine everyone naked.”
I laugh. “Just taking it all in.”
“Well. You. Do. That.” He pokes my side on each word. “Just breathe. You’ll be fine.”
The words make me do a double take. What’s even happening? I came here to save people, and he’s acting like I’m the one who needs saving.
“How long have you been here?” I ask. “With this… group?”
“Better to give in to it than label it.” His gaze flicks down, and for a second the glitter drops. “Two months for me. Most are done, one way or another, before six. Brad’s the only longtimer.”
Jake nudges his chin toward the guy reading, and slips away, back to his game.
Give in to what? Done with what? The three tests?
With so few people in the inner circle, I guess it’s reasonable Jake would assume I understand whatever I’ve gotten myself into. Or maybe it isn’t safe to say more.
The muffled bass outside cuts off, exposing every quiet stir in the hidden back room. The suffocating feeling I’d felt before Jake whisked it away rushes back.
“Sounds like they’re winding down,” says one of the guys on the couch.
“Finally,” Brad mutters. The longtimer stretches in his chair and looks at me over his book.
His black T-shirt clings to oversized muscles and a thick neck that makes the book look tiny, and his gaze is strong enough to knock the air from my lungs from across the room.
When he closes his book, things shift quickly.
The guy napping stirs. Casual glances turn strangely deliberate. Even Jake puts his smile away as nine pairs of eyes lock onto me, one by one.
I edge from the bar toward the closet door, trying not to make a big deal of the little side steps that will give me a quick exit if things take a turn.
The door opens behind me, and I jump.
A surprised “fuck” slips off my tongue.
Alistair steps through, right next to me, resplendent in an emerald velvet jacket with his initials embroidered in gold. He’s changed, and not just into new clothes. Something about him has darkened into the version I expected from the start.
His gaze pins me again, just like it did in the café.
“Jumpy,” he says, a thin smile curling into place.
The others laugh, all witnessing my scare because they were already staring. Now that Alistair’s here, they settle into a half-circle around him and, by extension, me, like actors taking their marks.
“Just startled me,” I say, forcing a chuckle.
It doesn’t cover much. I edge out of the center of their attention, only for Alistair to drag me right back into it.
“Marcus came tonight wanting to be right here,” Alistair says. “Didn’t you, Marcus?”
My palms sweat. “That’s right,” I say. What else am I going to say?
“So eager. You followed me to the park, took off your shirt, and threw yourself at me, just so that you could stand here with us now. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I gave you a suit.”
“Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And for the painting.”
“Did you meet the artist tonight?”
Shit. A test. Everything is a test, but at least he still thinks I care about art.
“Francesco Gomiz,” I say. “He wasn’t here tonight, unfortunately.”
Alistair nods slowly, and delight blooms across his face, too bright to be safe.
“So, so eager. Eager to get naked, too,” he adds, looking to the others. “Don’t let us stop you. Remove your pants.”
I look to Jake before I can stop myself, but even he won’t meet my eyes now.