Chapter Seven
Midas. Sabine. Alessi.
I squeeze my lids tight, needing a moment while my equilibrium finishes righting itself.
Fuck.
Connection. What’s the connection here? There has to be one. Why else would both Alessi’s bulldogs and one of the highest-ranking men of the Underworld be circling her like well-dressed birds of prey?
Atlas has fallen silent beside me. He’d already been skirting the edges of his control, having endured the dozen or so pat-downs needed just to get inside. I can see the minute cracks in his composure now: fingertips trembling against the stone, brows pulling down as he absorbs each detail of the confusing scene playing out before us.
Soft ripples creeping across the surface of an otherwise quiet lake.
While those waters are often dark and murky, I’ve always found comfort in knowing how deep that particular lake bed goes. In fact, I could really use some of that quiet intensity of his now, could use it to smooth over this open, jagged sensation tearing up my chest. As it is, it takes me several shaky breaths just to clear the obnoxious fucking ringing of my world tipping on its axis.
When I swallow, my throat feels like sandpaper.
Christ.
“I can’t hear anything, we have to get closer,” I rasp, but I’m already up and leaving the statue’s meager cover. I trust Atlas will be right behind me, despite how lost in his head he looks right now. But it’s not until we’re across the gap in the crowd, and almost close enough to reach out and touch one of the world’s most powerful men, that I’m finally able to hear their conversation above the rest of the party.
We still can’t see his face properly from this angle, but I can tell from his profile that—unlike the rest of the partygoers—he’s not wearing any type of disguise. At all.
“I don’t believe he’s here yet,” Sabine’s saying, both her tone and body language oddly rigid.
“It’s not like Sebastian to let you out of his sight for so long,” the man we now know to be Midas hums back across the rim of his glass.
Sebastian?
Everything about Midas—from the way he holds himself, to his voice—is like a big jungle cat in repose. Relaxed, yet brimming with power. Ready to spring forth at a moment’s notice. Our girl must sense the same from him.
I know she’s only been back in our lives for a heartbeat, but I’ve yet to see her present herself with anything less than complete self-assurance. Even with Sloane coming at her from day one, she’s taken everything on the chin, nerves taut like steel.
She didn't so much as flinch when Reynolds literally held a gun to her head.
But something about this man’s presence seems to melt straight through that steel like a hot knife through butter.
“It’s been, what, two months now? That’s certainly plenty of time to get yourself into all sorts of trouble, isn’t it, little rook?”
The danger implied by that sultry cadence alone sends all the hairs on my neck rising. There’s a way in which he delivers each subtly probing question that makes it clear they’re more than simply small talk between guests.
They’re a threat.
Sabine narrows her eyes ever so slightly before visibly stiffening, catching herself. It’s a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it moment , almost entirely hidden by her mask, but even just that small flash of her usual spine has my dick kicking in response.
There she is.
There’s the girl ballsy enough to address the Crown Sovereign by nothing but his chosen name.
She remains cool and dismissive when she replies, “School’s got me busy toeing the line.”
“Ah yes. Odd choice, starting your senior year at a brand new school,” he muses, before taking a deep, deliberate sip of something amber and expensive.
My spine jolts, the observation—again so casually delivered—sending a whole new chill creeping across my skin.
Because why would he be keeping tabs on her ?
Is he having our Academy watched?
“Just needed a change of scenery. As you can imagine, it’s a little much always having these guys breathing down my neck,” she returns with a forced shrug and a little wave in the direction of the men still very much crowding her in.
Midas is silent for a moment. I imagine his brows lifting as he waits for her to elaborate. “And? Made any new friends ?” he prompts when she fails to do so, taking a smooth step toward her.
The group at her back immediately bristles at his attempt to close the distance between them. Something that has my forehead creasing. There’s no arguing the man himself exudes very clear and obvious danger, and understandably, most people would feel cornered if they had the direct attention of the leader of half the fucking country’s criminal population.
But does this level of caution toward Sabine’s person seem…dare I say…. excessive ?
“I’m still finding my way around.”
Again, she lobs back a perfectly polite but total non-answer. She obviously has experience playing political dodgeball. More importantly, it’s becoming increasingly clear she’s not afraid to spike a few back herself.
Midas takes another slow mouthful of his drink.
The anticipation has my insides feeling like they’re performing an entire gymnastics routine. Sabine looks like she’s bracing herself while he considers her. Even Atlas shifts uncomfortably, his elbow knocking against mine.
“Well, you’ll honor me with a dance, won’t you?” Midas drawls right as I'm beginning to think the man’s about ready to move on. His posture remains relaxed, which does seem to ease a small amount of the tension holding those around him hostage.
My lips thin with irritation, however. I don’t care how powerful this guy is, I don’t want his hands on or anywhere near her.
“Two left feet,” Sabine shoots with a pained smile that’s more a baring of teeth than anything remotely apologetic.
“Hmm,” the Sovereign chuckles, undeterred. He lifts his glass for another unhurried sip. “I don’t mind leading.”
The chatter surrounding them drops ever so subtly at his rumbled laughter. It now seems everyone in their general proximity—including Sabine’s companions—is holding their collective breath, waiting for her rejection.
Even Gabriel and Rafael are watching soundlessly, and those assholes love hearing their own voices. They might not be privy to her exact identity as we are, but no doubt they’re each dying to know exactly why the Northern Sovereign has taken such a keen interest in her.
Midas extends a single hand in invitation while at the same time smoothly depositing his unfinished drink on a passing tray. It's a move that says he’s confident she’s not even contemplating the idea of refusal. The poor waiter squeaks in surprise before barreling through the press of bodies.
Sabine stares down the hand like it’s a serpent reared up, fangs bared and ready to sink its venom directly into her flesh. Like she’s very much thinking about telling him exactly what he can do with it.
Two thudding heartbeats later, she stonily passes off her own champagne glass. As soon as her hand slips into his, he yanks her in against his body, and the aggressive power move has all five of us stepping forward before we can stop ourselves.
The guy previously glued to her side throws out a low armbar in warning, bringing the two bulky Enforcers to a halt. The three of them exchange frustrated words beneath their breaths, though their eyes never leave the back of Sabine’s head.
“ Relax , it’s a simple waltz,” Midas teases lightly as he pulls her along, but there’s a coiling undertone to his humor that's almost serpentine. “You’re as stiff as all this marble around us. Almost makes me want to take you home and display you on a plinth.”
I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper.
“I tried telling you that I’m not a great dancer,” Sabine grits out, the lie written all over the downturned purse of her lips.
Midas, still ignoring her weak excuses, spins her deftly away from her keepers, and Atlas and I finally get our first front-on view of the monarch’s face.
Golden skin, golden hair and the type of flashing, intelligent eyes whose color is impossible to pin down under this type of lighting. To most, that set of features would seem safely handsome and charming. And I’m sure he’s more than charismatic enough to pull it off in normal circumstances.
All I see is the perfect predator.
An empty gaze, focus honed sharply on the prey currently within his clutches, all while seasoned instincts keep him keenly aware of his surroundings.
As if to prove that point exactly, those fathomless eyes lift and find mine through the crowd unerringly.
I suck in a breath at the veiled menace I see there; my feet rooted to the spot, my stomach heavy with ice-packed dread. Ambient sounds fall away, and I watch as each of the muscles along Sabine’s exposed neck and back seem to tense. There’s an echoing tightness that spirals along my own limbs and spine.
His face splits with a newly mocking smile, one framed by a set of sharp, white incisors.
One hand drifts down, stopping just above the swell of her ass.
And then he fucking winks .
The moment that follows seems to hang forever, the suspense only breaking when a jittery man in a crimson host’s mask appears suddenly at Midas’s side.
“Your Grace, her Honor wishes to speak with you,” the messenger rushes out, wringing his hands and bobbing nervously. Midas doesn’t acknowledge the interruption, the poor man visibly aging by the second.
The king of the North’s unerring focus is instead back on Sabine. It's another painstaking minute before he deigns to break the silence. “Do remember, little rook— these violent delights have violent ends ,” he purrs cryptically.
Then, with what might have been another sly wink, he turns on his heel and strides past the sweeping staircase that’s been roped off from the rest of the party and toward a set of curtains. The mass of guests between us and the stairs immediately melts back, leaving a generous path before him.
My brow furrows as I’m left staring daggers at the back of Sabine’s white blonde hair and feathered mask, turning the random Shakespearean line over and over.
“ And in their triumph die like fire and powder , which as they kiss consume, ” Atlas murmurs from beside me.
I grunt in acknowledgment.
Only why Romeo and Juliet ? Did this man—who reportedly controls almost half the known criminal syndicates in the country—consider himself and Sabine... star-crossed lovers ?
Nothing about their interaction spoke of romantic interest.
At least not consensual.
My teeth gnash against the inside of my cheeks.
His hand on her ass. And that fucking wink.
But then something else wrestles its way to the forefront of my simmering thoughts. What had Midas called her?
Little rook.
Rook ? So not a raven, then.
My mind latches onto that seemingly innocuous nickname, trying in vain to remember where I might’ve heard the word rook before in reference to the Imperium .
Nothing.
I’d need Atlas and Lake to check through their notes as soon as we get back to campus.
Or.
Or I can get the information straight from the hauntingly beautiful source herself.
Before I can take more than a single step, however, I'm intercepted by a large, foreign hand clamping down on the back of my neck. My eyes immediately cut to the side, only to confirm there's an identical tattooed grip against my brother’s nape. Atlas’s shoulders are up around his ears.
Fuck. I know I wasn’t on my best guard just then, lost in thought, but Atlas normally is. This guy must move like a fucking ninja or else he got lucky and was able to use the swelling noise of the party after Midas’s exit to cover his approach.
“Evening, lads,” our captor sings from behind our heads with a flirty lilt. He follows up his cheerful greeting with a single warning squeeze of both hands. “You must be two of Sabine’s little lost Rox Boys.”
My heart rate slows just a fraction as I process those words. There’s a very good chance he’s one of the men we saw accompanying her just now—and not someone from Alessi’s crew.
Still, he managed to catch both of us with our figurative pants down, and I don't like it one fucking bit.
“And who the fuck are you?” I growl back, skin prickling with shame beneath his firm touch.
My eyes dart back over to where I thought they were last standing. Sure enough, only the two dark-haired bodyguards remain. They’re tracking Sabine’s stiff approach as she returns to their side. I'm also attempting to track her steps without moving my head.
The stranger only chuckles. Obnoxiously. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy? It’s Sinclair—right?” He punctuates the second question with a firm shake of his hand, and Christ, it feels like my whole skull rattles.
But I’ll be damned if I let this asshole keep calling the shots here. I shrug him off roughly, and as soon as the twin death grips fall away, Atlas and I spin defensively.
My gut was right.
It's the large blond, who's clearly enjoying himself, the black feathers of his face mask unable to hide the mirth glittering behind his eyes. Couple that with the dark smirk he wears like a slash of war paint, and his whole demeanor has me feeling like we've blindly stumbled into the trap of some unhinged trickster god.
Which probably explains why I suddenly find myself right up in the shorter man’s personal space.
“She’s ours . Always has been ,” I spit, my words dripping with all of the hot, possessive venom now searing out the hollows of my rib cage.
I'm fully expecting the asshole to laugh again. Instead, all I get is more of that incessant fucking smirk.
Fuck, do I want to wipe it right off his smug fucking face.
“I need to talk to her,” I grind out, wondering, not for the first time, if he’s going to prove to be an actual barrier between us and our girl.
“Apollo, my man. A word to the wise: This alpha bullshit? It doesn’t work on her.” He pauses, looking thoughtful for just a second before adding with another sultry grin, “Unless you’re Zeus. Then she’s folding like a house of cards.”
I have exactly zero idea who this Zeus fucker might be, but my brain’s now fixated on the fact this motherfucker just addressed me by the same callsign Sabine gave us as she fled with us from the Guardhouse.
Apollo.
Is she the one who gave Zeus his name? And what about this guy? What’s his alias?
For some reason, it’s that thought—the thought of her also bestowing matching pet names upon these perfect fucking strangers—that sends the hottest jet of jealousy coursing through my chest yet.