Chapter 9, Xan
The plan was simple.
Slip into the gala unnoticed, track Mira, and extract whatever information Lucian needed.
What actually happened?
Julian now knows my real name. I’ve made an absolute spectacle of myself by pulling her into a dance that bordered on a public declaration of possession. And worst of all—I lost her.
My eyes scan the ballroom, sweeping over the sea of masks and expensive suits. She’s gone. They’re gone. A sickening, ice-cold certainty creeps through my veins. Nothing good can come of this. If one of those bastards has laid a single, filthy hand on her, I swear—I will carve him open from sternum to spine and string his insides across this fucking mansion like Christmas lights.
I overheard Julian earlier. Whispering to Simon about a trade. About an offer. I know exactly where high-stakes deals are usually made.
The offices. Upstairs.
I slide my knife from its holster, tucking it into my sleeve, every nerve locked onto one single thought.
Find her. Now.
My instincts have never failed me—not once. They have kept me alive in the darkest pits of this world. And right now? They are screaming at me. Screaming that I need to move. That I need to save her.
I take the stairs two at a time. That’s when I hear it. Mira’s voice. Strained. Smothered beneath the guttural rasp of a man’s laughter.
The moment I push open the door, my world narrows to a singular, bloodstained reality. She’s on the ground, legs forced apart, the delicate fabric of her dress torn like it was never meant to be anything but a sacrifice.
He is on top of her. Pinning her down. Mira thrashes, her nails clawing at the asshole’s face, but he is bigger. Stronger. Overpowering her. Unlike when I had her in my arms yesterday, her body is stiff, rigid with horror. She does not want this. She is absolutely terrified.
Rules lodge themself in my mind, many I have obeyed since childhood. Do not interfere. Do not intervene. Stay detached. Follow the mission. But this? This has nothing to do with precision. Nothing to do with discipline. This is about her.
And the only person allowed to break her is me.
My knife glides into my palm. In a single, fluid motion, I bury it in his throat. The steel tears through flesh, slicing from one side to the other. Mira screams. The man gurgles, a wet, choking sound as his body convulses, blood surging from his throat in thick, crimson waves. It floods down, drenching her in warmth, mingling with the red of her dress until there is no distinction between fabric and death.
I grab a fistful of his hair before he can collapse on top of her. My blade slides free, and I turn my head toward Mira—only her.
She’s staring at me. Not with fear. Not with horror. But something else. Something raw. Something I own. I lower my voice, quiet but seething, laced with darkness and absolute.
“This is my first gift to you.”
“And I promise, little fox—there will be many more.”
With merciless precision, I press my blade against the inner corner of his eye and push. He jerks, still barely alive, spasming as I work the knife deeper, until the socket gives way. Until his eyeball detaches. His remaining eye widens in sheer agony, and for a brief, glorious moment, I hold him there—force him to watch as I finish what I started.
The second the eye threatens to pop free, I yank the knife back, shove my fingers into the gaping wound, and rip it out myself. It dangles between my fingers, slick and warm, the optic nerve twitching like it still understands the magnitude of its suffering.
I lift it, just enough for him to see what I have done before the final breath rattles from his chest. I let his corpse slump forward, his dead weight hitting the ground with a dull thud.
I turn back to her, stepping closer, knife still slick with his blood, and tilt her chin up with the blade. My voice is a whisper, a vow, a death sentence to every man who will ever think of touching her again.
“This is for you, Mira.”
“And it will happen again. And again. And again—to anyone who dares lay eyes on what belongs to me.”
I glance down at the scumbag’s corpse, his head lolling unnaturally, blood still pooling beneath him. The slash across his throat gapes wide, his eye socket an empty, oozing void. If I leave him like this, someone will definitely ask questions.
And I do not want questions. I want fear.
I kneel beside him, take his chin, and force his head back into position. His jaw flaps uselessly, slack and bloodied, but I do not need him to talk. I just need him to speak.
I retrieve my weapon, still warm from his flesh, and carve a mark across his cheek—curling a circled ‘T’ that the right people will recognize. A signature, unmistakable to those who operate in the shadows of this city.
The Obsidian Order does not tolerate weakness. They sure as hell don’t tolerate their members being taken out like this. Whoever finds him will assume one thing—he was punished. And no one questions a punishment.
I lift the body by the shoulders and drag it toward the farthest end of the room. There is a small, round table, barely used. I prop him up in one of the high-backed chairs, straightening his posture, letting his head fall slightly forward as if he’s simply slumped in thought. I fix his collar, wipe a smear of blood from his lips with my sleeve. From the outside, it looks almost… peaceful. Almost.
The final touch? I take his missing eye—the one I ripped from his skull—and place it carefully in his palm, fingers curled around it like a gift. An offering. A warning. Anyone who walks in here will know exactly what this means.
I turn back to her, scanning the mess of her appearance. She looks wrecked. Not just by what happened, but by me. Her dress—ruined. Torn at the hem, stained a deep, damning crimson. Her hands, shaking, still slick with his blood. If she walks out like this, they will stop us.
I unbutton my tuxedo jacket and drape it over her shoulders, shielding as much of her body as I can. However, the fabric won’t hide the way she moves—the stiffness, the shock.
Think, Hayes. Think.
The coat check.
There is a hallway nearby—one meant for staff, yet open to guests who know where to look. I grab her wrist, tugging her toward it, ignoring how cold she feels beneath my touch.
We reach a storage closet. I yank the door open, searching through shelves of coats, scarves, anything. My fingers brush over something soft—cashmere. A long, elegant wrap, perfect for draping over her shoulders, over her shame.
“Lift your arms.”
She obeys without question, letting me wrap the fabric around her like I am dressing a doll. Her hands are still bloody. I grab a champagne bucket from a nearby table, the ice half-melted, and thrust her hands into the freezing water. She gasps, but I don’t let go. I rub her fingers together beneath the surface, watching the water darken, swirl.
“Stay still,” I order. She does.
I dry her hands with a cloth napkin, then take her chin between my fingers, tilting her face toward mine. Inspecting her.
“If anyone asks, you spilled wine. You got sick. You’re drunk. Whatever. Say anything else, and I will fucking drag you out of here kicking and screaming, understood?”
Her lips press together. She nods.
The front is too exposed. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Instead, I guide her through the service hallway, past waiters carrying trays of champagne and plates of caviar. No one stops us. Nobody even notices.
Outside, the crisp night air cuts through the stench of blood, replacing it with gasoline, smoke, the distant promise of rain. I pull Mira closer, pressing a hand to the small of her back.
A valet eyes us curiously. I flash a couple of crisp hundred-dollar bills, muttering, “No questions.”
He hands me a set of keys without a word. Seconds later, we are in a sleek black car, gliding away from the scene like shadows slipping through the cracks of a city that never really sleeps. She’s staring out the window, unmoving, her face unreadable in the dim light.
Still processing.
I don’t speak. Not yet.
Mira’s silence presses against my chest, heavy and expectant. I keep my eyes on the road, but my focus drifts to her—the set of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw. She hasn’t asked where we are going. Or why. She hasn’t looked at me once.
I expect fear. Accusations. Maybe even disgust.
And I would not blame her.
She saw just enough to know something’s wrong—with me, with all of this. And if she did not, she will soon. I have done things no apology could ever erase. If she knew the half of it, she would already be running.
So, I drive. And wait for the moment she finally breaks the mute atmosphere.
She has not moved much. Just sits there, staring out the window like the world outside might make more sense than the one she’s in now. I glance at her once. Then again.
Still nothing. No questions. No screaming. Just silence, coiled and ready to snap.
I fucking hate this part. The waiting. The not knowing what version I’ll get when it finally breaks.
I shift my grip on the wheel. Clear my throat. Think about saying something—but nothing useful comes to mind.
What the hell am I supposed to say anyway?
Then she turns. Slow. Mechanical.
Her eyes find mine.
“You killed him.”
She finally speaks. Her voice is shaky. Mine isn’t.
“No. I saved you.”