Chapter 29
Bastien Montclaire
He steps forward, opening the door with more care than most people use when handling a newborn. His hand comes up for the keys, slow and eager, gaze never once lifting to my face.
Perfect.
I slip the keys into his palm, and he takes them like a man receiving holy communion. Not a single question or flicker of recognition. He’s too busy memorizing the Stingray’s curves, probably imagining what she can do in his hands.
Let him be obsessed with the car.
Let him forget the driver.
A machine like this devours attention, leaving nothing behind for anyone to notice about the man walking away from it.
And tonight, that’s what I want.
The New Orleans summer air wraps around me, thick as velvet and twice as heavy. The suit fits perfectly—obsidian pressed to precision, a black shirt beneath. No tie.
The mask waits in my hand. Not the one I wear for Laurette. Not a skull that turns death into something intimate and lingers long after I’m gone.
This one has a different purpose. A message.
I had it commissioned, crafted by a local artist who asked too many questions and got paid enough to forget every one of them.
A Venetian-style masquerade mask—black lacquer layered with blood-red flourishes, edged in gold leaf, sculpted into something sleek and sharp and hungry.
The snout is narrow, and the ears are alert.
The eyes are hollow and rimmed in crimson, cut to hunt through a crowd. A predator cloaked in elegance.
And through the openings, my golden-brown eyes will be unmistakable.
Most masks are meant to disguise. This one is meant to announce.
Everyone else will see a wolf. But Laurette will see me.
Her wolf.
The hotel stands proudly, light spotlighting its facade. Inside, the ballroom glows—crystal chandeliers dripping molten light from the ceiling, their reflections shattering across polished marble floors.
Music hums—a string ensemble plays something refined.
Masks gleam, and formal gowns shift with each step. Money, power, and ambition move together in a rhythm older than the city itself.
And tonight, I walk into the center of it wearing a wolf’s face meant for only one woman to understand.
I slip inside, and the crowd doesn’t detect me. People are too busy admiring themselves in mirrored walls, too wrapped up in sequins and champagne to sense danger threading through their orbit.
And then I see her.
She appears through the shifting bodies, framed in gold light and movement, as if the entire ballroom rearranged itself just to reveal her to me.
Red.
Not a coy shade meant for flirtation. This is a shade of crimson meant for fire, boldness, and control. The gown molds to the narrow line of her waist, glides over her hips, the skirt falling and cascading in smooth layers that whisper with each step.
Her mask is gold-trimmed and delicate against the sharp, beautiful architecture of her face. Her eyes burn through it—alive, alert, and too bright for this room of sleepwalkers. But the curve of her mouth… it stills something violent inside me.
Laurette Devereux… I’d recognize her anywhere—in any crowd, from any angle, in any life.
Every instinct in me locks onto her—a wolf scenting his mate.
I watched her only a few hours ago through the cameras, slipping into her dress, twisting her hair up with practiced precision. I knew the exact sweep of color on her lips. But here, now, it all seems irrelevant. Because in this room, under these lights, she’s something else entirely.
She’s composure wrapped in red silk, unshaken as the current of masked faces shifts around her.
They see the ADA, the polished professional who speaks in careful words, whose spine never bends. They don’t see the woman who kneels when I tell her to, who trembles when I decide she will.
From across the room, through the hum of stringed instruments and the glittering lies of wealth, I sense her presence catch on something raw in me. Something feral. It’s instinct, recognition older than thought. My pulse shifts, and my senses narrow. The entire world tilts toward her.
She doesn’t glance my way, still oblivious that I’m here. But tonight, mask or no mask, she’s mine.
Not in possession. In recognition, in the way a storm knows which shore it means to break.
The mask stops existing the moment I step into the current of the ballroom. Whatever I’m wearing on my face becomes irrelevant. People see only what they’re trained to see—wealth, confidence, the easy posture of a man who belongs anywhere he chooses to stand.
They don’t see the truth, or the violence sleeping under my ribs, or how every step I take shifts around one singular gravity.
Her.
I move through clusters of jewels and silk, past men who mistake arrogance for power and women who mistake attention for significance. No one looks at the shadow threading between them. No one lifts their gaze long enough to catch the predator beneath the polish.
That’s the beauty of this setting. Everyone is performing. Everyone is blind.
But I’ve never seen her more clearly.
A server slips past with a tray of drinks. I take a glass of whiskey, neat, and drift to the edges where the air is cooler. From here, the whole ballroom is mine to monitor.
Laurette’s parents command the room with an unmistakable presence. Her father—perfect posture and practiced charm. Her mother—elegant and composed, with a gentle warmth in her smile that softens her precision.
Richard hovers across the room, deep in conversation, but his eyes are always scanning.
And then there’s Jon David.
He’s always too close to Laurette, hovering in her space like he belongs there—orbiting without permission.
He watches her with a fascination he thinks passes for subtle. It doesn’t. Not even close.
Laurette wears the kind of expression you give someone you’d rather see across the city—not a breath from your shoulder. She holds it with grace, but her eyes flick away too fast for it to be anything but tolerance.
I take a slow drink, leaning against a marble column, letting the whiskey burn in a clean, controlled line down my throat. The vantage point is perfect—a hunter’s perch in a ballroom of self-satisfied prey.
I could cut through the crowd right now, speak a single word, step into her line of sight and witness the entire dynamic shift. Revel in watching Jon David fold and watch her spine straighten. Observe the room rearrange itself around the two of us.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
She hasn’t seen me.
And there’s something exquisite in that. This slow burn of anticipation, my eyes following her every move through this glittering cage, unaware of the force about to shift the axis of her night.
The moment I step forward, the air will change, and the ground will tilt. Everything between us will catch fire.
The energy shifts the moment the auctioneer steps forward. A ripple moves through the ballroom, and there’s a collective inhale wealthy people take when they’re about to prove something to each other. His voice rolls across the crowd, trained to turn excess into performance.
Trips. Art. Jewels.
Vacations no one needs. Experiences they’ll forget by morning.
Polite money floats back and forth, accompanied by soft laughter. Champagne glasses lift with bored grace. Bids rise to that perfect sweet spot where they signal status. It’s a dance of ego and etiquette, everyone pretending they’re above the thrill while chasing it desperately.
I hold still.
And then it appears. The Patek Philippe. 1940s. Gold. Elegant in the quiet, devastating way actual power never needs to announce itself. The kind of watch that belonged to men who built empires on their breath and buried rivals with a handshake.
Something I want to add to my collection.
The bidding opens fast, paddles rising in quick, confident flicks. Smiles tighten, and predators dressed as philanthropists bare their teeth with money.
I don’t have a paddle. I don’t need one. My hand rises once, subtle and unhurried, the gesture of a man claiming something he already considers his.
The number climbs.
I answer each one without pause or blinking, without a drop of hesitation.
Across the ballroom, Laurette moves. Her dress flares under the chandelier’s molten light, and her head tilts—the slightest shift, as if her body recognizes something her eyes haven’t found yet.
She feels me. Of that I’m certain.
Another bid.
I lift my chin this time.
Conversations stall mid-sentence as people hear the escalating numbers. One man—the last holdout—hesitates before signaling again, his confidence cracking around the edges.
I don’t look at him. I simply lift my hand one more time.
The auctioneer’s voice warms, sensing blood in the water. Last call. The crowd murmurs about the figure and how it has climbed well beyond what most of the room expected.
The gavel drops, and the watch is mine.
The music unfurls, and the crowd shifts. Couples drift toward the center, skirts whispering against polished floors, hands finding hands, bodies sliding into practiced proximity.
I wait.
Richard turns away to greet another guest.
Jon David is at the champagne bar, pretending to listen to a man he doesn’t respect.
Her parents are in deep conversation with a donor whose laugh is too bright and eager.
And there’s Laurette.
Alone.
Just for a breath.
Just long enough.
I move before anyone else can.
The crowd parts for me, and I stop in front of her, close enough to breathe the same air. I bow my head and extend my hand.
“Dance with me, Babygirl.”
Her inhale is sharp when her eyes lock onto mine through the carved hollows of the mask.
And then her lips part, soft and stunned, the word slipping out of her.
“Bastien—”
The music builds, and the room narrows. For a moment, everyone else disappears. Because she realizes. Even behind the mask, she knows who’s come for her.