Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Across the room, I spot a woman with a camera moving through the crowd. Highlighted hair, Slavic features, a press badge that would identify her as Elena Varga.
Kat.
Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. She gives me the barest nod—I see you, I’m working—before melting back into the crowd.
Then, I notice the man she’s been photographing.
He’s big, bald, mid-fifties, and built like a brick wall, with scars on his knuckles and a face that looks like it’s been carved from granite but the sculptor made a few oopsies along the way. He’s talking to Conrad Marsh, leaning in close, and there’s something about him that makes my instincts scream. He doesn’t fit here—too rough, too watchful, too much inner disdain for everyone here and worse at hiding it than I am.
I need to find out who he is.
“I need to use the loo,” I tell Vanguard. “Give me five minutes?”
He looks like he wants to argue—or follow me—but he just nods. “Don’t be long. The vultures are circling.”
He isn’t wrong. I can feel eyes on me from every direction, society types trying to figure out who I am and how I got here.
I slip away from his side and make my way through the crowd, feeling suddenly cold without the warmth of his hand on my back.
The bathroom is a sanctuary of marble and gold, blissfully empty. I lock myself in a stall, rest my forehead against the door, and let out a long, shaking breath.
That was too much. Just too bloody much. I hadn’t realized how touch-starved for human affection I was until just now, and it makes me want to cry.
Hold it together. Talk to Bayo.
I breathe deeply again then twist my earring back to full receive.
“Bayo. Talk to me,” I whisper. I know Vanguard probably can’t pick out my whispering in the bathroom amongst the din of the gala, but still, I keep my voice low as possible.
“You’re doing good. Lots of big players here.”
“Yeah. Like that big guy. Kat was photographing him. Who is he?”
“I ran his image. His name is Viktor Kozlov. They call him The Butcher.”
The name means nothing to me. “So who is he?”
“Russian mob, originally. Now, he runs his own operation—trafficking, weapons, drugs. Uses gravity tech for some seriously nasty shit.” A pause. “Mia, if Kozlov is at a presidential fundraiser and shaking hands with Conrad Marsh, this is so much bigger than we thought.”
Trafficking. Global Dynamix. The Prometheus files with their horrifying failure rates and talk of neural degradation.
What the hell have I walked into?
“Keep watching him,” I say. “Kat, you can hear me, right? Document everyone he talks to.”
“She’s already on it,” Bayo says. “How are you holding up?”
I think about Vanguard’s hand on my back. The way he looks at me. The way my body responds to his touch like it’s been waiting my whole life for someone who won’t die from my kiss, even though I know that’s impossible.
“I’m managing.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Shut up, Bayo.”
I take a breath, straighten my spine, twist my earring back off, and walk out into the party.
Vanguard is waiting exactly where I left him, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes tracking me across the room the moment I emerge. There’s something different in his expression tonight—an intensity that hadn’t been there before. It’s a hunger barely leashed, and I hate how badly I want to undo that tether, even though it would probably end with his demise.
He watches me approach like I’m the only person in the room, like everyone else—the president, the monsters in expensive suits—has simply ceased to exist.
“Took you long enough,” he says when I reach him.
“There was a queue.”
“Was there?” My heart trips over itself. He sets down his glass and steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell that intoxicating mix of cedar and skin. “You were hiding.”
“I don’t hide.”
“No?” His hand finds my waist, fingers curling around the curve of my hip. “Then dance with me.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please, darlin’, may I have this dance?”
I grin and nod. Honestly, I’m just relieved he’s not suspicious.
The string quartet has changed into something slower—a waltz that drifts through the room like smoke. Other couples are moving onto the dance floor, swaying together in that performative way rich people do at events like this. But when Vanguard pulls me against him, there’s nothing performative about it.
His hand slides up my back, palm flat against bare skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake. His other hand catches mine and lifts it to his shoulder, positioning me like he’s done this a thousand times. Then, we’re moving—one-two-three, one-two-three—and I forget how to breathe.
He’s warm everywhere we touch. No, hot. Chest against my breasts, thigh brushing mine through the silk, his hand spanning the small of my back like he’s claiming me. I can feel the strength coiled in him, barely restrained, and I’m pretty sure he’s at least a little hard, because I can feel the outline of his cock against my thigh.