Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
EMMA EASTON
The room smells faintly of shampoo and dye, the air warm from the radiator heater in the corner.
Adela works carefully, scissors snipping through my hair, the strands falling in soft dark waves onto the floor.
I’ve never seen myself like this—my hair chopped to a little past my shoulders, dyed a deep, rich brown that makes my skin feel tanner somehow.
Heather sits on the bed, fussing with a makeup compact, eyes flicking up at me every few seconds.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says, tilting her head. “Seriously. You’re going to be…stunning tomorrow.”
Adela hums in agreement as she smooths the last section of hair into place. “My dress looks perfect on you,” she adds. “Although you need some help walking in those heels.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m used to smaller heels. Not six-inch red-bottoms.”
Adela smiles like she’s proud of her heels.
I tug at a strand of hair, feeling the weight of the change. “Thank you,” I mumble, my tone slightly uneasy. "I feel like a different woman."
"You are," Heather says quietly, like she's deep in thought. "I'm proud of you, Em. You're going to save his life."
I smile at my best friend, love bursting through every corner of my chest. "I think you'll have to show me how to use a gun."
"Oh, fuck yeah," Adela laughs. "Is our sweet girl ready to kill?"
I swallow and look up at her. "I'll do anything for him."
"Good girl," she praises, running the brush through my hair.
After a moment, Heather leans forward, eyes bright. “Oh, I have to tell you something.”
I glance over. “What?”
She bites her lip, as though measuring whether I’m ready. “Micah…told me he loves me last week. For the first time.”
My mouth falls open. “Wait—why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to feel weird about it,” she says with a shrug, tugging at a seam on her jeans.
I smile, the small curve of happiness blooming despite everything else. I reach out to take her hand. “I’m so happy for you,” I say, squeezing gently. “I can see it. I know he loves you.”
Heather’s grin lights the room like sunlight through glass. She’s about to say more when the door bursts open, and in walks Micah, Rafe, Nico, and Kieran.
Adela mutters without looking up, “Wow…suddenly feels too stuffy in here with all the testosterone.”
The guys roll their eyes. Every single one of them. Rafe takes a step forward and leans down, speaking in a low voice. “I’ll show you testosterone, little doe.”
She giggles, shoving him away playfully, but I can still see the hunger flash in his eyes before he turns his attention to me. “How are you feeling?” he asks, crossing his muscular arms across his chest. “You excited to be my date?”
I nod, reaching for my sternum on autopilot.
He tracks the movement. “Remember, only you and I are going in. Act like you’re my associate. Keep your head up, your presence confident, and your emotions controlled. If you see Jude, keep your shit together. Got it?”
I swallow, immediately pulling my hand away. “Right,” I say.
“You may have to dip into uncomfortable territory,” he adds casually, but the weight behind the words makes my stomach twist. “Just follow my lead. Play your part perfectly.”
I nod again.
Adela finishes brushing my hair, letting it fall in smooth, glossy layers around my shoulders. She studies me critically, tilting my head this way and that. “You look lovely,” she says finally, the corners of her mouth softening into a genuine smile.
“What does he mean by ‘uncomfortable territory’?” I ask, though hesitantly.
Rafe doesn’t answer immediately. He leans closer, lowering his voice even further. “You’ll see. Just…trust me. Follow my cues. The underworld is filled with men and monsters alike. Sometimes you’ll witness things you want to rage against.”
“Example?” I ask, genuinely curious.
A sad smile forms on his lips. “Trafficking, for example. Slavery. Often at these kinds of events, you’ll notice men and women who are...owned. They don’t look happy to be there, or are touched obviously without clear consent. It’s uncomfortable, especially for someone like you.”
I swallow hard, rubbing my sternum now. Heather watches me, knowing my nervous tick better than anyone.
Nico leans casually against the doorframe, earpiece already in place. “We’ll be listening. Cameras are hacked. Everything’s ready. It’ll go according to plan. We won’t talk to you unless absolutely necessary, though. Just do what you need to do and get out.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, shoulder-length dark hair framing my face. I’m about to step into a world I don’t belong in—but I’m supposed to make them believe I do.
Heather squeezes my hand one last time. “You’ve got this,” she whispers.
I inhale slowly. "I know."
The valet hands us off, and we step into a world that smells like old money and perfume, candles burning in golden sconces, conversation mixing with a string quartet somewhere to our left.
The room is dim, warm, and somehow intimate, even with the hundreds of people packed into it.
The guest count already makes my chest feel tighter than usual.
Stupid social anxiety. Even with our gold masquerade masks.
Reds, blacks, and golds shimmer on the walls and the floor, rich fabrics and sparkling jewelry everywhere I look.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I smooth my black dress—fitted silk and satin that clings to my waist and flares just at the knee.
The neckline dips modestly, but the cut of it is elegant and dangerous at the same time.
Thin straps leave my shoulders bare, and the fabric slides against my skin when I move.
Every movement makes me feel exposed. I’m not used to wearing dresses that cost four times more than my monthly mortgage.
Rafe walks beside me, his height nearly a threat in itself.
Black suit tailored to perfection over his broad shoulders.
His hair is tousled just enough to look careless, but his icy eyes are intense as always.
He towers over me like Jude used to. He sets his hand lightly on the small of my back, guiding me forward through the crowd.
The touch is grounding, and it makes my nerves knot and unknot at the same time. I take a shaky breath.
“The funny thing is...whether you smile or not couldn’t matter less here. I could be your owner for all these people know,” he whispers, close enough for me to feel the heat of his words. “This is one of those times where you don’t necessarily have to look perfect.”
I clear my throat, forcing my shoulders back. Candles flicker across crystal, and I feel like I’m moving through a living painting of decadence. I suddenly have the fleeting thought: Rook could probably paint this and convey the emotion of loneliness perfectly.
Rafe’s hand stays at my back as we weave through the crowd, and I force myself to exhale slowly, grinning at strangers. And still, my eyes scan every movement, every masked face, searching for the one that brought me all the way to Russia.
I keep searching, finding no one familiar. That is, until I do. I freeze.
There he is.
Jude is standing just a few steps from the far wall, hand resting lightly at Adriana’s back. Her auburn hair cascades down past her shoulders, catching the low light, the black of her dress clinging to every curve. She looks…beautiful. That bitch.
Jude is in an all-black suit, wearing a golden mask that covers the upper half of his face, like everyone else.
My stomach drops. I hate seeing the way he moves around her, the care in the way he leans closer, tilting his head toward her.
His gaze seems…nowhere, though. Not really at anyone.
Not really present. The mask hides a lot, but I can see the high haze in his eyes and the way he’s disconnected from the room.
And yet, the intimacy he shares with her is a dagger through my chest.
Adriana stiffens suddenly, and I follow her gaze to a man just a few feet away, talking to someone I recognize from that night at Jude’s place—Alexei. My throat tightens. The way she freezes makes me suddenly anxious, and I fight to keep my hand at my side instead of reaching for my sternum.
Then Jude leans down and kisses her slowly.
My heart stumbles over itself, and nausea surges inside me. I can feel my chest constrict. My hands press lightly against my dress, trying not to draw attention, trying not to move, trying not to crumble.
What the hell are you doing? You hate her.
Rafe’s presence is an odd comfort at my side. “Focus,” he murmurs, voice brushing against my ear. “This isn’t about him yet.”
I blink, forcing myself to look forward.
My stomach is still twisting in the worst ways, but I nod, reminding myself that the night is bigger than him.
Bigger than my rage or heartbreak. Bigger than anything I want to do in this moment—like smash her head against a wall.
But I can’t help but think about the image that is now burned into my memory.
His lips moved on hers like he actually cares about her.
The orchestra’s music swells, and Rafe steps closer to take my hand. “Dance with me,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear, and I don’t argue. I barely have the energy to think. My stupid heart is still tangled up with what I just saw across the room.
He pulls me closer, and the heat of his chest presses into mine. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me effortlessly through the crowd without a word. I can feel the strength and muscle beneath the suit, and it sends a flush crawling up my neck.
“I saw that, too. I’m sorry. But he's likely playing a role just as much as we are,” he murmurs into the shell of my ear, and the vibration of his voice against my skin makes me shiver. “Just follow my lead, anxious little bird.”