Octavia
The music is deafening, and the crowd even worse. I push through the trees edging the estate, letting the noise fade into the background because I refuse to grant this party a single ounce of my attention.
I’m too furious about being here at all, dragged into this mess against my will.
But that anger pales beside the rage twisting through me at the thought of my sister being here as well. I want her safe, always, not thrown into enemy territory like some pawn in Adelaide’s schemes.
This is a Ferrum Syndicate party, and we belong to the Thirteenth Circle.
If they discover us here, we’re fair game. They could put a bullet in any one of us and face no consequence, after all, we breached their territory.
My teeth clench as I move deeper into the swarm of bodies, losing any trace of my sister, and of Piper and Eleanor as well.
Adelaide slipped away the moment we stepped inside, and frankly, I couldn’t care less. She can disappear into the earth for all I care.
I scan the estate grounds again, and at last, my eyes settle on my target.
I have a job.
It’s the one small advantage in this entire night, something worthwhile amidst the manipulation of that cartel bitch.
At least I walk away with something.
I get him.
Milo Markev stands across the courtyard, surrounded by people far too oblivious to recognise the danger threaded through him, most of them girls fawning over him as if he’s anything more than a loaded weapon with a pulse.
Even from here, he carries the arrogance of a man raised to believe the world will always bend to his will.
Bratva blood.
I keep my eyes on him, watching the tilt of his glass, his mouth visible beneath the mask pushed up onto his forehead. Ferrum Syndicate black, an X slashed where the eyes should be, a grotesque puppet sketched across the surface.
He takes another sip, and I almost smile.
Drink it all, pretty boy.
A girl leans into him, murmuring something against his ear. His smirk doesn’t falter as he inclines his head and gestures toward the mansion, his gaze glassy even at this distance.
I roll my eyes. Some people are so monumentally foolish it physically pains me.
I can already see how this little performance will play out, he’ll lead her inside, find an empty room, and proceed with whatever filth sits rotting in that bloodline of his.
Because that bloodline is tainted beyond repair, and nothing will ever cleanse it.
My jaw tightens as the girl—Talia Venter, a first-year at St. Monarche?—flashes through my mind.
I only overheard her by accident, though she was loud enough that half of Elaris Isle must have heard her breaking down.
She was sobbing, shaking, insisting he hurt her, drugged her… raped her.
It took nothing more than a name for me to believe her.
Because men like him don’t change.
Men like him don’t stop.
Especially a Markev.
And that’s where I come in.
I slip into the house after him, keeping a careful distance.
Markev is barely holding his weight now, I see him lean toward that girl, murmur something, and she nods with a pout before turning and drifting back into the party.
Good.
He dismissed her himself, saves me the trouble.
The corridor is dim and empty, lined with artwork that’s clearly worth a fortune.
They’re impressive, even captivating in their detail, but I’m not here to appreciate them.
My pulse remains steady, my hand stays loose at my side.
He chooses a room upstairs, the door left slightly ajar. I hear the soft click of a cupboard, the muted rustle of clothing.
I drift toward the door, keeping myself tucked in the shadows as I angle for a better view inside.
He’s still wearing his mask, his hoodie lies crumpled on the floor, leaving him in nothing but his jeans.
He’s enormous.
I’ll give him that.
Easily six-four, and every inch of him is pure muscle, years of Bratva conditioning written across his body. His abdomen is tight, marked by a clear eight pack, his chest broad and solid, his shoulders thick, and his arms built from years of relentless work.
He looks like someone shaped by discipline, training, and a lifetime of violence.
But what steals my breath for a beat is the ink.
Tattoos cover him, his arms, his knuckles, the sweep of his neck, and from what I can see, his entire back is a canvas. The only untouched place is the skin over his heart, a stark blank spot amid all that art.
And it is art, maddeningly intricate even in the low light. I can’t make out the details, but it’s impossible not to register how striking it is.
Not that I have the luxury of admiring anything tonight.
He disappears into the built in closet for a moment, then returns wearing only his boxers, his mask gone, barely managing to stay upright, his body swaying under its own weight, before dropping straight onto the bed.
His blade lands on the nightstand with a hard clink beside a Makarov, and he drags a hand over his face, groaning as he tries to steady his head.
I wait a few more minutes.
I run a quick check over the blades strapped to my body, reassuring myself that each one is exactly where it should be.
The dress I’m wearing is indecently short, but I don’t need much fabric to carry weapons. I have more than enough steel hidden on me.
Slowly I move further inside.
I don’t usually prefer my targets unconscious when I end their miserable existence, but I’m not suicidal either.
As I’ve already established, he’s a giant, and he’s trained.
Judging by the heaviness of his breathing, he’s well under, completely swallowed by the drug I slipped into his drink earlier.
Getting it into him wasn’t easy, he’s cautious with anything he takes. But I’m better.
I smirk.
I slide the blade from the sheath strapped to my thigh.
Just as I reach for the Makarov on his nightstand, his voice slices through the darkness, sluggish, but unmistakably dangerous.
“Touch that,” he mutters, “and I’ll break your fucking wrist.”
My spine snaps taut.
This needs to end now.
In one breath, I’m on the bed, straddling him, pressing the blade to his throat.
“Don’t move,” I grit out. “Unless you want me to slip.”
His icy blue eyes open, far clearer than I accounted for.
I should’ve tripled the dose.
And the colour, God. His eyes catch me for a second too long. I could build an entire canvas palette off that shade.
I drag myself out of whatever that is.
Not the time, Octavia.
In the next instant, a blade of his own is at my throat, no idea where he pulled it from, the cold steel biting into my skin.
I press harder at his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.
“You’re brave,” he murmurs. “Or suicidal.”
“Neither,” I snap. “I’m justice.”
He presses his blade a fraction deeper.
“For who?”
“Talia,” I say flatly. “Ring a bell? Or have you forgotten? Hard to keep track of girls once you ruin them.”
His eyes narrow, confusion, recognition… irritation.
But not even a flicker of guilt.
“So you came to what… kill me?” he asks, smirking.
“Say your last goodbye, Markev.”
“What a way to go…” he murmurs, his eyes dragging over me slowly. “I always imagined dying because of Bratva business, some man shooting me, blowing up my car, a sniper on a roof… Never once did I imagine… you. A damn goddess.”
“You’re high,” I deadpan.
His smirk doesn’t fade. Instead, he shifts his hips, and the outline of his cock presses against me.
“Obviously,” he says. “You made sure of it. Literally.”
Revulsion slams through me at the feel of his body against mine.
“Psycho,” I spit, and because I have no interest in wasting another second with this maniac, and because he’s too busy staring at my face and my chest like an unhinged idiot, I manage to shove his hand away from my throat and drive my blade into his side.
He grunts, glancing down at the pink handled blade embedded in his side, thick blood spilling across his skin, before lifting his gaze back to me.
I expect fury.
Anything but what I find waiting for me.
A smile.
A wild, pleased, unmistakably deranged smile.
The man is certifiable.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes, staring at me as if I’m a miracle. “You drew blood.”
“And I’ll do more than that.”
I reach for the blade hidden along my cleavage, ready to finish what I started, when voices echo down the corridor.
“Milo?” a man calls.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing off him and sprinting for the balcony.
“Don’t run, princess,” he calls after me, but I’m already gone.
I glance over the railing. Two storeys. If I land on the bushes, I’ll survive the fall with nothing more than a bruise… or five.
I step onto the stone ledge and look back one last time.
He’s sitting upright now, obscured by shadows, his icy eyes fixed on me with unnerving clarity. The wind sweeps the curtains aside for a moment, revealing his unreadable expression, and my blade still lodged in his side.
I should be worried about that. But somehow, I know he’ll find me if he wants to, knife or not.
I start to turn away, but not before catching his smirk.
“You just marked yourself as mine.”
And I jump.