Chapter 6 #3
Fingers sliding toward the slit in my dress, brushing just under the fabric. He touches skin. Pauses. Looks up at me.
“You feel like silk,” he mutters, voice rough now. “You sure you’re not the prize?”
“That depends,” I say, lowering my gaze, lashes brushing my cheeks. “Do you play nice with your prizes?”
“I can be very nice.”
“Show me.”
I take his hand. And slowly guide it up my thigh. His breath hitches.
He’s all in now—mind soft, body eager, his lips already parting with whatever final confession I didn’t even ask for yet.
“I could tell you something real,” he murmurs, his voice curling like smoke. “Something no one else knows. About Calderone. About?—”
And then— I close his hand around the dagger. The blade is still sheathed, but it doesn’t matter. He freezes. Completely. Eyes wide.
I lean forward until my lips are just at his ear. “You don’t get to touch the prize, Alessio.” I press his palm tighter for just a second—enough for him to feel the sharp edge beneath the leather. “But thank you for your honesty.”
I release his hand. Stand up slowly. No rush. No flinch. Just finality.
He stares up at me, too stunned to speak, his hand still half-curled in midair. And I walk away.
Each step is clean. My shoulders squared. The burn of his silence behind me feels like a victory lap.
He’ll sit there for another minute trying to figure out if that really happened. If I was real. If he ever stood a chance.
And he’ll never know the answer.
Because I’ve already moved on.
And tonight?
I won.
The music bleeds into the background. Muted strings. Velvet laughter. Too many secrets in too little space.
The air is heavy with cigars, perfume, old money, and newer sins. I walk slowly. Not toward anyone. Not toward anything. Just… through.
Because I’m not done listening. Listening is where the real weapons are.
Alessio’s voice still echoes faintly in my mind. His eager confession. His stupid, shaky breath when I closed his hand around the blade. He’ll think twice before bragging again.
He’ll think of me every time he’s reminded of fear. Good.
Kellan’s voice buzzes in my ear.
“You’ve got someone tracking you on the far side. Tall. Grey suit. Been watching since you left the bar.”
I don’t react. Not outwardly. My expression doesn’t shift. My stride doesn’t slow. I can’t answer him, not without raising suspicion, but he knows that.
Instead, I take another turn around the room, casually reaching for another glass of champagne from a passing server. I keep my eyes forward, walking the edge of the crowd like I belong there—because I do.
I am the silence they forget to fear.
A man steps into my periphery, matching my pace until I either acknowledge him… or let it turn into something more noticeable.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s tall. Early thirties. Wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit. Slicked-back dark hair. Expensive watch. Confident without arrogance.
He looks like he belongs. But I’ve never seen him before. Which makes him a problem.
He offers a soft smile. Not too bold. Just enough. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, tone light, accent faint but present—Mediterranean. “You just looked like you could use company.”
I don’t answer right away. I just raise my glass to my lips and sip once. Measured. Controlled. Then I look at him. “And you looked like someone who doesn’t usually ask.”
He chuckles. “Touché.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend,” he says. “To some people. Not to others.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s honest.”
He holds out a hand casually as we stop near one of the tall windows overlooking the courtyard. “Leo.”
I glance at his hand. Then back at his face. I don’t take it. “Natasha.”
His smile twitches. “Beautiful name.”
“Common enough in these rooms.”
“Not the way you wear it.”
He says it like a compliment. Like he’s flirting. But there’s something in his eyes—something not entirely interested in my body.
Something more curious than eager. And that makes my skin tighten.
“So, Leo,” I say, tilting my head. “What do you do when you’re not charming strangers at someone else’s party?”
“A little of everything,” he replies. “Mostly boring things. I read. I drink. I listen. And once in a while… I meet someone interesting.”
“Do they usually tell you anything worth hearing?”
“Only if I ask the right questions.”
“And are you planning to ask me any?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
He smiles again, but I’m already watching his hands, his stance, the way he angles himself just enough to stay out of full view from most of the room. Strategic. Calm.
Dangerous? Possibly.
But I’ve danced with danger before. Tonight, I’m dressed for it.
We keep talking. Light, easy exchanges about the people in the room. Nothing specific. Nothing that could be traced. He makes a comment about Calderone’s taste in cigars. I reply with one about the gaudy chandelier.
But we’re both dancing around something deeper.
He’s waiting to see who I am. And I’m watching to see what he gives away.
“You don’t seem like someone who’s just… someone,” I say finally.
“Neither do you.”
His eyes flicker for half a second—down to my glass, back to my eyes. Not leering. Not admiring. Calculating.
“You’re not Italian,” I say.
“No.”
“But you’re not Russian either.”
He smiles. “You assume too much.”
“Or I see too well.”
He laughs again, soft and deep. “Maybe both.”
We’re still standing there. Still circling. But I already know this isn’t coincidence. Leo’s not just another bored heir in a good suit. And if he approached me… it means someone wants to know more.
The only question is—who?
And why now?
Leo’s presence isn’t oppressive. It’s quiet. Refined. That makes it worse.
Because men like that never approach unless they have something to gain. And they never reveal what it is until they already have what they need.
We’re still talking. Still exchanging words that mean nothing and everything at the same time.
“You don’t seem bothered by the wolves in this room,” he says, sipping his drink. “Most people flinch when power gets too close.”
“I don’t flinch,” I murmur. “I study.”
He watches me closely now. More carefully than before. “You’re not afraid of men like Calderone. Or Romanov.”
“Should I be?”
“That depends,” he says, voice low, “on whether or not you’re already in their pocket.”
My gaze sharpens just enough for him to notice.
He smiles.
I part my lips to respond—some clever deflection already forming in the back of my throat—when the air shifts behind me.
No sound. No warning. Just weight.
My skin reacts before I turn. My breath slows. I already know who it is.
Rafael doesn’t announce his presence. He doesn’t need to. He steps up beside me, slow and controlled, stopping just close enough that his suit brushes my bare shoulder when he turns slightly toward Leo.
And suddenly, the space around us tightens. The wolves? They’re here. And now they see each other.
Rafael’s voice is low. Measured. Deadly in how civil it sounds.
“You’ve had your share of her time.”
Leo’s smile doesn’t fade. But I feel the flicker of tension in his posture. “I didn’t realize she came with a clock.”
Rafael doesn’t even blink. “Everything does. Especially what’s valuable.”
For a moment, they just stare at each other. Two predators. Two games. And I’m the piece being played… except I’m not on the board. I am the board.
Rafael turns to me then, just slightly. And he leans in. His breath is warm against my ear, his voice low enough that Leo won’t hear a word of it.
“You’ll meet me at the estate. Directions will come soon.”
His tone isn’t a suggestion. It’s a summons. Commanding. Quiet. And intimate.
He steps back before I can answer, his expression unreadable as he turns and walks away—just like that. Like he knows I’ll follow.
And that knowledge?
It burns hotter than any glare Leo could’ve given.
I exhale once through my nose. Slow. Collected. “Excuse me,” I say softly to Leo, offering a slight smile. “Duty calls.”
“Of course it does.”
He doesn’t stop me. He just watches as I walk away. Like I confirmed something for him. Something dangerous.
The hallway is cooler, quieter. A servant passes me but doesn’t look up. I press two fingers lightly to my earpiece. “Kellan.”
“Here.”
“Pull the car around. I’m coming out now.”
“Copy that.”
I move through the entryway, out past the towering doors and into the night air. The hum of tension still clings to my skin like perfume. And Rafael’s voice—low, cold, possessive—echoes in my ear.
You’ll meet me at the estate.
I will.
But not because he said so, but because I’ve already planned exactly how I’ll use that meeting.
The cold air kisses my skin the moment I step outside. It’s sharp, but I don’t flinch. I breathe it in instead, letting it sweep away the taste of champagne and stale cologne and a room too thick with ambition to let anyone breathe.
The weight of the mansion behind me fades with each step I take across the stone path, the night swallowing the noise as I move closer to the curb.
That’s when I see it.
Kellan’s blacked-out car parked along the outer drive, tucked just beneath one of the iron lampposts. His hand rests lazily on the wheel, and he’s watching the mansion’s entrance like a man prepared for something to go wrong.
Ash leans against the passenger side, a cigarette glowing between his fingers like a dying star.
As I approach, he flicks it to the ground without a word, crushes it under his boot, and slides into the back seat before I reach them.
Kellan doesn’t speak until I open the door.
“How bad?”
“No blood,” I mutter as I sink into the seat. “But give it five minutes, and Alessio might be crying.”
Ash lets out a low chuckle as he slams the door behind me. “What’d you do?”
“Guided his hand up my thigh until he felt steel instead of skin.”
“You didn’t,” Kellan mutters, smirking as he pulls away from the curb.
“I did.”
“He talk?”