27. Liam
LIAM
The Gallows hangs above the main hall of The Velvet Trap. Surrounded by dark glass, it’s hidden in the original bones of the building long before the Lockwood name was attached to it. No inspector has seen it. No blueprint admits it exists.
“Black Chariot to Red Fox,” I hear the radio.
“Black Chariot, come in.”
“Hellion is en-route,” he says over the radio.
I relay the update to Venus. She’ll be ready, but I confirm anyway.
Max stands to my left, sleeves rolled, his jacket abandoned over the back of one of the leather command chairs.
Up here, the world opens. The darkened windows and banks of monitors bring every angle of The Velvet Trap into this room—every corridor, every hidden passage, and even the world beyond its walls.
New York runs on cameras in traffic lights, private towers, parking garages, and penthouse lobbies. With the right infrastructure and the right price, those feeds reroute—never permanently, just long enough.
“You know,” Max says, eyes sweeping The Gallows, “I miss Lockwood.”
Marcus used to stand where I stand now. He built this command center into something obsessive and immaculate. He ran the Game from here like a conductor with a private orchestra. Every cue timed. Every reveal deliberate.
“You’re suggesting I lack flair?” I ask.
Max snorts. “You lack harassment.”
“Harassment?”
“You used to needle him relentlessly. Every time he so much as looked at Iris, you were in his ear.”
I chuckle. “He needed oversight.”
He shrugs. “Can’t argue with that. The man was professionally besotted.”
“He was in love,” I conclude.
Max throws me a look that says I’ve walked right into this. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
I step forward, palms braced on the console, gaze dropping through the one-way glass. The lights below flicker on, one section at a time.
The Velvet Trap has been reborn.
Gone are the banquettes and Hudson Valley polish. In their place—Morocco.
A temporary riad blooms beneath us. Terracotta tones blend with deep sapphire and gold.
Lanterns suspended at varying heights cast fractured light across mosaic tiles that weren’t here yesterday.
Drapery pools from the ceiling in folds of cream and rust, dividing the space into intimate alcoves.
Low seating wrapped in embroidered textiles curves around brass trays and carved tables.
And at the center—a pool. Shallow, heated, and lit from beneath. It looks permanent. It isn’t. By tomorrow night it will be dismantled and gone without a trace.
This is where the game will end.
If she makes it here.
One of the exterior cameras activates. Side entrance. A black limo drives discreetly, all windows tinted. The rear door opens.
Hellion steps out.
The fabric of her dress moves first, catching the wind before she does. It skims her frame, then loosens, sheer layers drifting over a muted shimmer beneath.
On-screen, she exchanges a few quiet words with Black Chariot. He inclines his head and gestures toward The Trap’s side entrance. She adjusts her mask and moves that way. Beneath the lantern, she slows. The glow turns her into something almost unreal.
This is a fucking problem.
She simply walks and my blood makes up its mind.
I could end the night right here. Skip the game. Skip the pursuit. Take her straight to that divan at the riad and lock her against me until she forgets her own name. My cock is already ahead of me, done pretending I’d let this stay a game.
“And you think that woman takes care of baby owls,” Max adds. “You did well, brother.”
Something pinches at my throat. I can’t even throw a remark back at him.
Last time, I dressed her in charcoal. She looked like mystery and warning. This time, I chose ivory, and damn me…innocence looks worse on her.
And watching her move toward my door, toward my world, I recognize something I’ve been denying.
I’m not running this game for power.
I’m running it because I want her to choose me.
“You realize,” my brother says, “that if you don’t turn this into something real outside the Game, I’m staging an intervention.”
“Don’t start.”
“Someone has to step in,” he insists. “Remember, next decade you’ll be—”
“I know how decades work, Max.”
“You built a Moroccan fantasy palace to impress a woman who rescues raptors. That’s infatuation with a construction budget.”
I let a slow breath out through my nose. “Max.”
He grins. “You going to keep hiding behind Red Fox forever? Or are you actually going to ask her to dinner like a normal, obscenely wealthy man?”
“She agreed to play.”
“She agreed to a game,” he corrects. “Not to you.”
I smile, clapping his shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”
Meanwhile the camera keeps tracking her. She pushes the carved wooden doors open.
An attendant waits just inside. Venus herself, wearing a delicate pearlescent mask. It’s an ironic softness for someone trained to read micro-expressions for a living. She inclines her head in greeting.
Helena mirrors the gesture.
“Remove your shoes,” Venus says.
Helena doesn’t argue. She slips them off, bare feet meeting tile.
“She trusts the environment,” Max notes.
“She assesses it,” I correct.
A shallow brass basin is presented. Rose water glints under lantern light.
Helena kneels. She dips her hands into the bowl, her fingers threading through petals, before lifting them, and letting the water spill back in a slow shimmer.
Purification before entry. My idea. Very Moroccan. But right now, it’s testing if I’ll stick to the plan.
“I don’t know how you live like this,” Max murmurs.
“I don’t know how I’d live without it,” I say, watching her.
He gives me a look that says he’ll attend my funeral with a decent speech and excellent wine, because I’ve clearly chosen the most beautiful way to self-destruct.
On-screen, Venus gestures toward a carved tray.
Three small glass vials rest against embroidered velvet.
Amber. Clear gold. A darker oil with green undertones.
“Buckle up,” Max sings.
Venus’ voice drifts through the audio feed. “Choose one.”
There are three scents.
Saffron. Jasmine. Cardamom.
Helena studies them carefully. She lifts one vial, tilts it toward her nose, then sets it down. Her fingers hover over another.
Max glances at me. “You look tense.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
She reaches for the third vial.
She pauses, inhales slowly, and stays there for a long moment.
Then—
“This one.”
I smirk and murmur to myself, “Good girl.”
Cardamom.
Warm. Spiced. Intimate without being sweet.
“They say you never forget scent,” Max suggests.
“They’re damn right.”
Memory binds to scent differently than sight or sound. It embeds. Years can pass and it will still return you to the exact breath you first inhaled it.
She remembers.
“She frigging remembers,” I mutter.
Better still, she associates it with the right moment.
Max gives me a sideways look. “And it’s kinda scaring me, on your behalf. And it’s not even Halloween.”
I watch as Venus dabs the cardamom oil along Helena’s wrist, then the hollow just below her ear.
“Why is it scaring you, Max?” I ask.
“Because you’ve never been like this,” he answers.
He’s damn right, though a big brother doesn’t always say that to his younger brother.
The Obsidian Chamber swallows her whole.
The doors close behind Helena, and the lighting drops another degree.
The Moroccan riad below is spectacle. This room is intimate.
The walls are draped in darker textiles.
Orange blossom curls through the air, layered with something smoky.
Lanterns sit low to the floor, and the music is barely there like a pulse more than a melody.
Helena stands alone at the center. One by one, the Red Foxes enter.
Each mask is different. Some lacquered crimson. Some matte. Some etched with gold filigree. Same silhouette. Same predator. Different men beneath.
They circle her.
Touch is permitted—hands and shoulders only. Nothing else. The rules are ironclad.
The first fox approaches, bows, and takes her hand. He presses a brief touch to her knuckles before releasing her.
The second steps in, gloved fingers grazing her shoulder as he leans close to murmur something meant to entice.
I lean forward unconsciously.
“She’s holding her ground,” Max notes.
I’d expect nothing less. Still, something in me starts to fray.
The third tries confidence. He takes her wrist, spins her gently toward him. They exchange a smile. Nobody’s breaking the rules, yet my hand curls against the console.
“Try not to crack the glass.” Max glances at my grip.
For fuck’s sake I designed the trap. Even so, if that weren’t my men, he’d be spitting teeth.
“She’s not leaving with any of those men,” I reply.
Max gives a huff of mockery. “None of them would risk it, Liam.”
Another fox steps into her path. Taller. Broader. He lowers his head as if claiming territory.
Helena lifts her chin but doesn’t let him get nearer.
The foxes shift formation. They begin to close in—not touching now, just narrowing the circle. Testing her. Blocking the nearest exit.
She notices immediately.
One fox extends a hand again, offering the illusion of partnership. The largest of them, built like a linebacker, moves to stand in front of the carved door.
She looks up at him.
He doesn’t budge.
Max exhales slowly. “Damn, you sure making it hard for yourself, Red Fox. You’re not intervening?”
“She doesn’t need it.”
And she doesn’t.
Helena steps closer to the largest man, close enough that most women would hesitate. She places her palm against his chest, then pushes. He resists a fraction too long. That’s when she slips past his shoulder, then threads the gap between two foxes.
“She’s fighting them,” Max says, impressed.
“She always does.”
As she reaches the door, one fox tries to pivot in front of her again. She doesn’t even look at him. She sidesteps cleanly, grabs the carved handle, and pulls it open.
Light spills in from the corridor beyond.
She walks out.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Your cue, brother,” Max says.
I don’t move yet. “Watch for impostors,” I tell him.
Security runs tight during the Game. But Victor Rochemont has played before. He knows about The Velvet Trap. I treat that as fact.
“I won’t assume he’s out just because he’s quiet,” I add.
“Count on me,” Max says, dead certain. “Go.”
I settle Red Fox into place. The world narrows through its carved eyes. My breathing slows. From The Gallows, I descend like a hunter. And this time, I’m not here to watch.
I’m here to claim.