Chapter 4
The room fell into a heavy, unnatural stillness after the call ended.
Raven sat close to Jana, her hand resting quietly on her daughter’s leg. Con positioned himself near the far wall with his arms folded, watching the hallway with the patience of a soldier waiting for an incoming strike.
Isra didn’t move.
His sequined gown glittered under the soft lights, but he sat completely still in the armchair, gaze fixed on nothing. His usually expressive features had gone blank, his thoughts clearly spinning in places none of us could reach.
Jana tried to break the silence.
“So… are you performing tonight, Dad?” she asked, picking at the edge of one of the couch pillows.
Isra didn’t look up. “Yes.”
His voice sounded distant.
Hollow.
Not like him at all.
Jana offered another try. “Ginger’s on stage right now. She looked amazing. Did you see her—?”
“No,” Isra answered again, barely above a whisper.
Jana’s mouth closed. Her eyes flicked toward Raven, worry written all over her expression. Raven squeezed her hand, but even she didn’t attempt to push further.
The silence stretched.
After several long minutes, footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Confident. Purposeful.
Marcus.
He paused outside the suite for a heartbeat, collecting himself, then opened the door.
Marcus Lindholme stepped inside wearing a fitted charcoal pea coat over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his forearms. He carried the effortless style of a man who belonged in upscale lounges and art galleries.
His hair was neatly swept back, showing off sharp cheekbones and warm-brown eyes that always seemed to smile before he did.
Tonight, those eyes went straight to Isra.
“Hey,” Marcus said as he crossed the room. His voice held a mix of concern and affection. “You sounded stressed on the phone. What’s wrong?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Marcus reached Isra and immediately crouched beside the chair, resting a hand on Isra’s knee. His thumb brushed lightly over the sequined fabric as he looked up at him with genuine worry.
“You okay, darling?” he asked softly. “You’re shaking.”
Isra didn’t respond. Not right away.
Marcus studied him, then lifted a hand to caress his cheek with slow tenderness, the way someone touches a partner they adore.
“I’m here,” Marcus whispered. “Tell me what’s going on.”
His voice was urban-smooth, calm, charming—everything Isra had fallen for.
Everything that made this moment harder.
Raven rose from the couch, and Con straightened like a blade being drawn.
I took a breath.
The truth we came here for was about to tear through all of us.
Con stepped forward first. His stance was calm but unmistakably authoritative, the kind of presence that filled a room without raising a voice.
“What do you do for a living, Marcus?” he asked.
Marcus didn’t look at him right away. His focus stayed on Isra, fingers still resting gently against his partner’s cheek. Only when Con’s silence stretched did he lift his head.
“My concern is Isra,” Marcus replied. “Not my business dealings.”
His tone held a polite edge, the kind used by men who were used to closing conversations, not opening them.
Isra swallowed, finally meeting Marcus’ eyes. “Answer him.”
Marcus froze. The request clearly affected Marcus. After a long moment, he exhaled and stood, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat.
“Fine,” he said, sounding resigned. “I’m in import and export. Mostly high-end items. Art pieces, rare antiques, sometimes unique goods for private collectors.”
The explanation drifted into a practiced rhythm, each detail crisp and well-rehearsed. “My parents built the foundation years ago. I grew the modern side—authentication, logistics, transport. It’s legitimate. You can look at my business licenses, my contracts, my taxes.”
He glanced around the room as if expecting us to relax.
None of us did.
Raven watched him with narrowed eyes. Jana hugged her arms around herself. Isra’s expression didn’t soften; it only grew more strained.
Con took a single step closer. “What kind of rare antiques?”
Marcus didn’t miss the shift in tone.
“Old manuscripts. Sculptures. Jewelry with historical value. Items that require discreet shipping because of their age or fragility.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Nothing illegal.”
Con wasn’t satisfied. “And overseas work? Why so many trips?”
Marcus shrugged. “Because clients are everywhere. You can’t run an international business from a single city. I visit warehouses, oversee packaging, meet with collectors.”
“Collectors of what?” I asked quietly.
He looked at me then, really looked. “Collectors of expensive items,” he said with a small smile. “Nothing supernatural.”
His voice held the right cadence. His explanations were smooth. His body language seemed relaxed.
But something was wrong.
Not a lie, not exactly.
More like he was speaking carefully, choosing each word with carefully.
Con noticed it too. His eyes sharpened.
“Have you ever worked with Dimitri Galloway?” he asked.
Marcus didn’t blink. “No.”
“Or handled any objects with enchantments, sigils, or active magic?”
Marcus smiled again, but this time the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Magic isn’t in my field, Constantine.”
Every answer was polished.
Every sentence aimed to sound harmless.
Yet a subtle tension kept pulling at the edges of his voice, like a man walking a tightrope, aware he couldn’t afford one misstep.
Raven shifted beside me. I felt her unease through our bond.
Marcus sensed it too. He looked at her now, worry gracing his features.
“Raven,” he said softly, “I don’t know what Dimitri told you, but I’m not involved in anything dangerous. I’m not tied to criminals. I’m not hiding anything from Isra. I swear it.”
He held her gaze, steady and sincere.
But something in the air felt wrong.
Con knew it.
I knew it.
Raven felt it through the bond.
Marcus had all the correct answers.
Every one sounded believable.
But the truth was hiding somewhere behind his eyes, tucked neatly between his practiced words and perfect composure.
Something wasn’t lining up.
And we were growing closer to the part he didn’t want to say.
The room grew heavier, as if every breath waited for the next lie or the next truth. Marcus stood in controlled stillness, his expression calm but a touch too cautious. Isra watched him with wide, aching eyes.
Then Jana shifted on the couch.
She sat straighter, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on her father. Something weighed on her, something she had kept quiet until now.
“Dad,” she said.
Her voice cut through the quiet.
We all turned toward her.
“I don’t mention much about my new abilities,” she continued slowly. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you or Mom. But there’s something you should know.”
Isra blinked, confusion momentarily replacing worry. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Jana swallowed, gathering the courage to say it. “It’s very hard for a human to lie to a werewolf.”
The room stilled.
Isra’s back straightened. Raven’s hand tensed on Jana’s shoulder. Even Marcus’ eyes flickered.
Isra’s voice came out low. “What are you saying?”
Jana glanced at Marcus—quickly, uncomfortably—before returning to her father.
“He’s really good,” she said, choosing her words with care. “There’s only a small shift, almost nothing. The spike is barely perceptible. If I didn’t have a wolf’s instincts now, I might have missed it.”
Raven’s breath caught.
Jana continued, tone gentle but unwavering.
“And most of what he said was true.”
Marcus stiffened.
Isra’s face fell, the shimmer of the red gown catching the light as he leaned forward, searching his daughter’s expression for something he could hold on to.
“Most?” he whispered.
Jana nodded once, her eyes soft with apology and something close to fear.
“He didn’t lie about loving you,” she said. “Or about his family. Or about wanting to help.”
Then her gaze returned to Marcus, sad and painfully steady.
“But he didn’t tell the whole truth.”
The silence that followed was a living thing—abrupt and cold.
Marcus’ polished mask held for a breath.
Then another.
But I saw it.
We all did.
A crack.
Barely there, but impossible to ignore.
And suddenly, everything Dimitri had said no longer felt distant or manipulative.
It felt real.
Very real.
Isra’s breath trembled as he turned back to his daughter. The sequins on his gown no longer sparkled, they looked dull under the weight of regret.
“Tell me,” he said quietly. “What did Marcus lie about?”
Jana hesitated for only a heartbeat, then met her father’s gaze. Her voice was soft but carried an unmistakable truth.
“He lied when he said he hadn’t worked with Dimitri,” she said. “And when he claimed he never dealt with criminals or artifacts with supernatural origins.”
The words landed like blades.
Raven stood and inhaled deeply, fury flashing across her face. Her magic stirred so fast the air vibrated. Her violet eyes brightened, glowing with a dangerous intensity that shot a warning through my bond.
“You pig,” she hissed at Marcus. “You played Isra. You are helping the enemy.”
Her power surged, bright enough that the small lamp beside her flickered. A crackle swept over her skin, rippling through the room like ozone before a strike.
I stepped closer, gripping her arm gently. “Raven. Look at me.”
Her gaze snapped to mine, furious and desperate. A twitch pulsed along her jaw. The glow in her irises intensified.
“Raven,” I said again, grounding her with my voice. “You can’t tap into your magic right now. Rene is already too weak. You’ll drain yourself, and me. Breathe.”
Jana moved to her mother’s other side, placing a hand over Raven’s. “Mom, please. I’ve got you.”
For a long, tense moment, the magic resisted—hot, trembling, and aching to lash out.
She was seconds away from burning the truth out of Marcus with sheer instinct.
I held on, steady and sure. Jana anchored her on the other side.
Slowly—painfully slowly—the light in Raven’s eyes dimmed back to violet. The energy pressing against my senses receded like a tide pulling away from shore.
She exhaled in a shuddering breath and lowered her gaze.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
But the hurt in her voice was unmistakable.
I looked at Isra.
His expression shattered something inside me.
He wasn’t angry.
Not yet.
He looked wounded, so deeply that for a moment he didn’t seem able to draw breath. His features slackened, lips parting as his eyes unfocused. The dramatic makeup he wore only magnified his pain, making every tremble of his mouth and every tightening of his brow excruciatingly visible.
It was as if someone had stabbed straight through his chest.
He lifted a hand, fingers shaking, and covered his mouth. The glitter on his cheekbones couldn’t hide the way his face had gone pale beneath the makeup.
His voice finally emerged, cracked and barely audible.
“You lied to me?”
Marcus opened his mouth, but Isra raised a trembling hand.
“No,” he said, choking on the words. “Not yet. I want to hear what Jana sensed. All of it.”
Jana swallowed, her own eyes glossy with sympathy. She spoke gently, as if each word were a bruise.
“The only lies he told were about his work,” she said. “About Dimitri. About magical items. Everything else felt true.”
Isra’s breath hitched.
He looked at Marcus again, not with anger, but with heartbreak so raw it felt like the entire room bowed under the weight of it.
And Marcus…
Marcus finally lost some of that perfect composure.
A crack in his charm.
A tightening of his posture.
A flicker of something like fear or regret.
But it was far, far too late.