Chapter 22 #2
I manage a small smile, letting my free hand rest on his thigh for the sake of appearance—and maybe for my own reassurance. “I’m okay. Nervous, but okay. You?”
He exhales slowly. “Same. Feels like we’re walking a tightrope.”
I bite my lip. “We are.” But I force a steady exhale. “At least we’re not alone.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, all the glitz and glamour around us fades.
The memory of the other night’s confessions, the heated passion we shared before Dean barged in, lingers between us.
My heart beats uncomfortably fast under his gaze, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
I might be half in love with him, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline talking, but either way, there’s no denying the pull I feel when he’s near.
Before we can say more, a low chime rings out.
A server in a burgundy vest steps forward, clearing his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gracing us with your presence this evening,” he announces in a cultured tone.
“Devereaux invites you to enjoy all the amenities. Please, indulge yourselves—and if you’re lucky, you may have the honor of speaking with our esteemed host, or with the elusive Morris Rolfe and Lazarus Delgado. ”
At the mention of the names, a ripple of murmurs spreads through the room. My stomach knots and my eyes widen at the mention of Lazarus Delgado.
“Lazarus?” I whisper to Lincoln. “The Delgado Mafia boss?”
Lincoln’s eyes widen. “Do you know him?”
I nod, slowly, chills skating over my skin. “Yes, doesn’t everyone?”
Could Lazarus be the one threatening me? It makes sense.
Lincoln brushes his hand against mine. “Stay close. We don’t split up unless absolutely necessary,” he says under his breath.
I nod, adrenaline sparking in my veins. “Agreed.”
With that, we rise from our seats, merging into the flow of couples moving deeper into the luxurious quarters—toward private rooms, small parlors, and alcoves lit by dim sconces.
Every surface glistens with opulence, every face masked in polite intrigue.
We’re shepherded into a chamber beyond a set of gilded doors, where a fountain bubbles in the center, surrounded by couches arranged for discreet conversation.
I spot Vera and Trey again, perched on one of the couches with a pair of older socialites. Beyond them, a cluster of people stands around a tall man with dark hair, speaking in hushed, animated tones. Is that Morris? My pulse leaps, and I nudge Lincoln, trying to be subtle.
He follows my gaze, jaw tightening. “Could be him,” he murmurs. “Do we approach?”
I hesitate, watching the man’s confident posture, the way others hang on his words. He could definitely be the infamous Morris Rolfe, but there’s no telling until we get closer. “We should at least circle around. See if we catch his eye.”
Lincoln nods, slipping his arm around my waist again.
Together, we ease through the throng, stopping to exchange polite nods with other guests.
My heart pounds at the possibility that the next moment could bring us face-to-face with the man who might be behind my threats—or at least connected to them.
Every breath I take feels laced with tension, every brush of Lincoln’s hand on my hip a comforting reminder that I’m not alone in this.
I can’t help wondering what new charade we’ll have to perform tonight, how far we’ll have to go to seal the illusion of Mr. and Mrs. Zane.
And, in the private corners of my mind, I wonder what it’ll mean for me and Lincoln when all this is over.
A low, pulsing bass thrums through the dark, opulent chamber.
All around us, couples are shedding inhibitions under the sultry glow of chandeliers and tinted lanterns.
The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, spiced liquor, and something more primal—desire crackling across the room like electricity.
Lincoln and I hover near a plush velvet settee, watching the scene unfold.
I can feel his heartbeat through the arm he’s wrapped around my waist, the tension in his body humming in time with the music.
Everywhere I look, people are leaning closer, exchanging hungry kisses, laughter dissolving into moans, and the boundary between public and private blurring in this decadent den.
Part of me is on high alert—scanning the faces, searching for a glimpse of Morris—but another part can’t ignore the relentless, throbbing awareness of Lincoln by my side.
It doesn’t help that half the guests have already noticed us. Men and women flash bold smiles, some offering coy winks, others outright staring as though sizing up new additions to this secretive world. I shift in my heels, the swirl of my dress brushing against Lincoln’s leg.
Just then, Vera and Trey reappear, threading through the crowd with a predatory grace.
They both have the faint sheen of champagne-induced warmth on their cheeks, eyes bright with excitement.
Vera’s gold gown shimmers under the lights, hugging her curves, while Trey’s crisp suit jacket hangs open, revealing a glimpse of tanned collarbone.
They approach us, hands linked. Vera’s crimson lips curl in a lazy grin as her gaze travels over Lincoln and me. “You two look so tense,” she purrs, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. “We thought you might like to… loosen up.”
Trey slides his free hand over my shoulder, letting his fingertips brush the bare skin there. “The night’s just getting started,” he adds softly, voice edged with a dare.
My pulse jumps at his touch, and I sense Lincoln stiffen beside me.
A low, possessive sound rumbles from his chest—a near-growl that sends a jolt through me.
This moment is precisely why we came under the guise of a couple who’s “open to new experiences,” but the reality is dizzying, especially with Lincoln’s tension radiating like a live wire.
Still, we have a role to play. If we recoil now, Trey and Vera might take offense or suspect we’re not who we claim to be. They’re close to Morris, after all; we can’t risk losing any chance to gather intel. So I place a reassuring hand on Lincoln’s chest, silently telling him to hold it together.
“We’re… interested,” I say, mustering a confident smile. My voice quivers slightly, but the music and chatter hopefully drown out any tremor. “What did you have in mind?”
Vera’s eyes gleam. She glances over her shoulder at a cluster of low couches in a dimly lit corner of the room. “How about something to drink first, to help everyone relax?” Her gaze flicks to Trey, who inclines his head in agreement. “Then maybe we see how we all… mesh.”
Lincoln’s arm tightens around me, a subtle warning. But aloud, he nods. “Fine. A drink sounds good.”
Trey directs us toward a quiet alcove where a small table holds an assortment of exotic-looking bottles.
Soft cushions and plush chairs form a loose semicircle around it, and several couples are already there—chatting, leaning into each other, letting hands wander under the faint glow of candlelight.
There’s an undercurrent of uninhibited sensuality that sets my skin tingling.
I settle beside Lincoln on one of the cushioned benches.
Vera and Trey take the seat opposite us, and a server appears as if by magic, pouring amber liquor into crystal glasses.
The aroma is sweet and spicy, laced with something I can’t identify—perhaps an infusion of herbs for “liquid courage,” I think wryly.
Vera lifts her glass, eyes dancing between Lincoln and me. “To new experiences,” she toasts, her silky voice practically wrapping around the words.
We clink glasses, and I take a tentative sip. The flavor burns pleasantly down my throat, leaving a heated trail behind. Lincoln downs his, jaw still tight, though he angles himself closer to me on the cushions. Trey and Vera exchange knowing glances.
“So,” Trey says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The overhead light catches the sharp angle of his cheekbones. “You two have been around a bit, but I get the sense you’re… new to these deeper waters. Right?”
I force a teasing smile. “We like to explore, but we’re still finding our footing.”
Vera trails a hand along the neckline of her gown. “Don’t worry, we’re not pushy.” She slides a half-lidded glance at Lincoln, then at me. “But if you want to join the fun—tonight’s the perfect place.”
The gentle strains of music from another room waft over us, mingling with the rhythmic pulse of desire that seems to fill the air.
I catch sight of a couple on a nearby chaise lounge, locked in a deep, leisurely kiss, hands roaming.
The scene is undeniably erotic, and I feel the passion of it seeping into my own blood.
Trey shifts, leaning in until he’s close enough that his hand grazes my knee. “We could start slow,” he murmurs, voice low, “unless you two prefer to dive in headfirst?”
Lincoln bristles beside me, and I sense the surge of protective jealousy in every taut muscle of his body. But he plays his part, managing a throaty laugh that sounds almost genuine. “We’re good with slow,” he says, sliding a hand up my arm in a show of possession. “Right, darling?”
My heart hammers at the pet name—both from the pretense of it and the underlying truth. “Slow is fine,” I echo, taking another sip of the liquor.
Vera smiles, then shifts closer, one hand brushing against my arm in a featherlight caress. “You’re tense, Isabel,” she whispers. “Let go a little. You’ve got your husband right here. You can trust him, right?”
A spark of nervous excitement flares in my core. I shoot Lincoln a quick look, letting my gaze linger on his lips before meeting his eyes. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I trust him.”
Then Vera leans in, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. Her fingertip trails a path down my neck, and my breath catches. I can almost feel Lincoln’s gaze burning through the side of my face. But we asked for this—didn’t we?