Chapter 24
The Trickster
T he ornate wooden floors creak beneath my restless pacing, each step echoing through the cavernous hall like a countdown. I’m already inside the old historic building on Governors Island, reserved for high-level functions like tonight’s board dinner.
Board members filter in slowly, nodding at me with wary respect, but I barely register their existence. My eyes keep darting to the arched doorway where she’ll appear, where Carolina will bring her. Where my wife will walk back into my gravity.
It’s been five days since I’ve seen her for more than a few stolen minutes while she slept—since I’ve touched her—and my skin feels too tight, like it’s shrinking around bones that won’t stop growing.
Five fucking days. I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone after what happened between us. Not after she let me taste her pain. I’ve never thought of myself as a man who needs, but the emptiness in my chest tells a different story.
I miss her.
The realization burns like acid through my veins. I shouldn’t care—this arrangement was never about attachment—but my body doesn’t seem to understand the distinction.
The grand hall of this historic building reeks of old money and older blood. Centuries of power preserved in stone and wood. Massive chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their crystal teardrops catching the light like frozen rain.
Gothic arches frame tall windows that look out over the grounds of Governors Island, the distant carnival lights of the Sanctuary bleeding orange through the fog.
A board member—some white-haired fuck whose name I’ve deliberately forgotten—attempts small talk, asking about the projections for the Sanctuary. I answer with one-word responses, not bothering to hide my disinterest.
His wife sits beside him, her neck draped in diamonds that can’t disguise the withered skin beneath. She’s eyeing me like I’m the night’s entertainment. I’ve gotten used to the way people look at me since Ruby died—half fascination, half fear, as if tragedy might be contagious.
The heavy double doors swing open, and my spine straightens before my brain can catch up. Carolina enters first, her blonde hair swept into a sleek updo, her dress a conservative black sheath that still manages to display her curves to their best advantage.
Nick would kill for her. Has killed for her. But it’s the woman behind her that makes my breath catch. Eve.
She’s wearing a short black dress with orange accents that match the tips of her hair, the fabric so delicate it looks like it might dissolve under my touch. The back dips dangerously low, exposing the ridge of her spine all the way down to where it disappears into the swell of her ass.
The front isn’t much more modest—a deep V that draws the eye to the shadowed valley between her breasts, held together by what looks like a single clasp that’s begging to be undone.
Her legs seem endless, and the heels she’s wearing make her calves flex with each step. She’s fucking magnificent.
I move toward her without conscious thought, drawn by some force more reliable than gravity. Her gray eyes widen slightly when she sees me, taking in my tailored black tux and the crisp white shirt beneath it.
“I’ve missed you, wife,” I say, the words rough with honesty I didn’t intend to reveal.
Eve rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away when I lean in to kiss her. Her lips meet mine in a perfunctory press, her body stiff in my arms. The coldness of her response is so at odds with the heat of our last encounter that I almost pull back to check if it’s really her.
But the scent is unmistakable—flowers layered over something darker, richer, that belongs only to her.
“Hello, Jack.” Her voice could freeze blood. “How nice of you to remember I exist.”
Before I can respond, Nick calls us to the table. I guide Eve with a hand at the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin. She allows the touch but doesn’t lean into it. The contrast with the Eve who rode me in the cage—wild, uninhibited, claiming—is so stark it feels like whiplash.
Instead of sitting at the head, which is customary, Nick waves our wives over and gestures for them to take those two seats. I take the seat on Eve’s left, and Nick sits next to Carolina and right across from me.
It’s a deliberate arrangement—the Knight women in the center, protected on all sides. No one touches what belongs to us. And with my brother’s head of security behind the women, all sides are covered.
I mouth my thanks to Marco, who just nods back. Stoic as ever.
“Let’s start with drinks and the important stuff while the chefs put the last touches on the food,” Carolina says, officially calling the meeting to order.
I can’t focus on a single word being said as everyone asks questions about the only thing that matters to the board members—money.
My attention is locked on Eve’s face, on the careful blankness of her expression when she looks at me. She’s here physically, but somehow she’s locked herself away, retreated behind walls I thought we’d started to dismantle.
The candles on the table catch in her hair, turning the orange ends to flame. I want to reach across and tangle my fingers in it, to pull until her head tips back and her throat is exposed to me. I want to ask what changed, why she’s looking through me instead of at me.
But the questions will have to wait. For now, I watch her.
Finally, the first course arrives, and with it, plenty of wine. Eve and I are served at the same time, and when I shake my head and refill my water glass, she does the same. I look at her, intendi ng to tell her she can drink wine if she wants, but she’s not looking at me.
Her eyes are on the artful arrangement of food too pretentious to satisfy actual hunger. Though she smiles politely at the board members who look her way, she ignores me completely. Sure, the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but it’s still more than she’s offered me.
Something dark and possessive twists in my gut. I grip my knife harder than necessary, the metal biting into my palm.
“Dr. Mortis, I understand you specialize in trauma psychology,” says one of the women, her voice dripping with rehearsed interest. “You got that from your father, didn’t you?”
“Her father?” a man asks.
His wife slaps his arm and scoffs. “Yes, dear. Her father was the great Charles Mortis.”
My gaze darts to Eve, but she doesn’t even flinch at the mention of her dad. Instead, she turns to the woman who first addressed her. “Yes, it was my dad that got me into that line of business.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You could even say he had the head for it—”
“Oh!” Carolina exclaims, her lips splitting in a knowing grin. “I think I get it now.”
Eve ignores her and continues. “I’m currently on an extended sabbatical, though.” Her tone is measured, thoughtful, and engaging. “All thanks to my husband.” She doesn’t even look my way.
When the conversation shifts to me, her demeanor changes instantly. Her answers become clipped, her body language closed. She speaks to me without looking at me, addressing her glass or the space just over my shoulder.
Each time I ask her a direct question, she finds a way to redirect, to include someone else in her response. It’s surgical—the precision with which she cuts me out.
“Willow’s Foundation has exceeded all projections,” Nick announces completely out of the blue. “But we’re still hoping that the Sanctuary of Shadows will bring in at least an additional two million in donations and sales.”
I should care about this. The Foundation is a family business, Knight legacy. But all I can focus on is the curve of Eve’s neck as she leans slightly toward Carolina, whispering something that makes my sister-in-law’s lips twitch with suppressed amusement.
“Jack,” Nick says sharply, drawing my attention. “Do you have anything to add?”
“Whatever you recommend.”
Nick’s eyebrow arches slightly. Beside him, Carolina exchanges a knowing glance with Eve. The silent communication between them sets my teeth on edge. When did they become so familiar? When did my wife and sister-in-law develop a language that excludes me?
“Dr. Mortis,” calls a board member from the far end of the table. “Perhaps you could offer some insight into the psychological impact of our immersive experiences?”
Eve straightens, her expression shifting into what I’ve come to think of as her doctor face.
“Fear as entertainment works because it activates the same neural pathways as actual danger, but within a controlled context. The Sanctuary’s tiered system is particularly effective because it creates the illusion of choice within a framework that’s actually highly manipulated. ”
The table nods appreciatively at her analysis. I stare at her, hungry for even a glance in my direction, but her gaze sweeps over me as if I’m furniture.
Nick catches my eye across the table and smirks, clearly amused by my transparent frustration. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually around Carolina’s shoulders, the picture of satisfied ownership.
My brother has always enjoyed watching me struggle—it’s our dynamic, and has been since we were children.
“The… what did you call it?” The woman who’s speaking pauses, looking at her husband for help, and he quickly leans in and whispers something to her that makes her blush. “Oh yeah, the fear-kink element has been particularly successful, especially in the Sacrifice only zones.”
“Dark eroticism taps into primal instincts,” Eve replies smoothly. “The brain doesn’t always distinguish between different types of arousal. Fear, anger, sexual desire. They share neurochemical signatures.”
My cock stirs at her clinical dissection of exactly what happens between us when I have her pinned beneath me. She know s this, must know this, yet she discusses it like an academic observation rather than lived experience.