"I'm sorry, Talia.”
"Don't be. It taught me young that caring about someone gives them, and everyone else, power over you." Talia meets my eyes in the mirror. "Which is why whatever is happening between you and Blake is either the bravest or stupidest thing I've seen. I definitely couldn’t do it.” She almost smiles. "Well, if you're going to be stupid, might as well commit. Speaking of which…" She pulls out a small pistol, compact enough to fit in an evening clutch. "Loaded, safety on, same model Blake taught you how to shoot. You remember how, right?”
I take it, check the chamber like Blake showed me, and verify the safety. The weight feels wrong in my hands, like it’s too heavy and too light at the same time. This morning, I was a senator's daughter. Tonight, I'm someone who carries weapons to galas and prepares to prevent murder.
"I remember," I say.
"Good. Hopefully you won't need it. But if you do,” Talia's voice drops and becomes something harder. "Don't hesitate. Men like Silas, like Edmund, like all the others who think women are property are counting on you to be too civilized, too scared, too well-trained to actually pull the trigger. Prove them wrong."
I bet there's a story there, buried in the way her jaw tightens, the way her eyes go distant. Something that happened to her, or to someone she loved, that taught her exactly how dangerous hesitation can be. I want to know what forged Talia Delano into someone who hands out bejeweled weapons in evening wear and calls it preparation, but Blake appears in the doorway, stealing my attention completely.
He looks devastatingly fuckable in a tuxedo. Not because he seems comfortable in it, because he doesn’t. His shoulders are too broad for the formal lines, his presence too raw for the polish, and I imagine it’s because he wears violence like other men wear cologne.
“That dress,” he stops, and something hot and possessive moves through his eyes. “You look dangerous,” he tells me.
"That's exactly what your sister said." I smile.
"Talia's right." He crosses to me, and the air between us charges immediately. Just a few days of knowing each other, and my body responds like he's magnetic north and I'm helpless to resist the pull. "You ready for this?"
"No, but I'm going anyway. My Mama’s somewhere watching.”
"That's my girl." He kisses me, slow and thorough, the kind of kiss that promises that things will continue with us when this night is over. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes my lower lip. “Remember what I told you. Whatever happens tonight, whatever Silas or Edmund or anyone else tries, you stay close to me. You don't take risks. You don't play hero."
“I understand,” I say a bit too playfully for his liking.
"I mean it, Peyton.” His face hardens. “Part of me doing my job is being able to adapt to any situation. That’s why I don’t normally get personal with a client or a target. But obviously, I’ve broken that rule, which means my ability to be laser-focused is shot to hell." His hands frame my face, forcing me to see the worry he's trying to hide behind an honest moment. “Don’t get in my way by making decisions on your own.”
“Decisions on my own? My name is on the hit list, Blake. That means I get a say in how much risk I take."
“I’m not fucking around.” His face hardens. “There’s a reason why I do things the way I do. If I tell you to get down, you get down. If I tell you to run, you run. That’s how you’ll stay alive.”
It's not a romantic declaration. It's a combat order. A desperate attempt to control variables in a situation where control is an illusion. I should argue with him, because his words feel more like an order and less like a plan. Maybe I should remind him that one life-changing night in bed doesn’t mean that I’m his possession to be protected, or that my life isn't worth more than his. Why doesn’t he understand that I’m no longer his assignment but rather his partner in this? But perhaps he’s been by himself so long, he doesn’t understand how to be any different.
The fierce resolution in his eyes stops me from saying anything, though. This isn't Blake Delano, the weapon, the fighter, the man who burned a warehouse and walked away. This is Blake the human, the one who's already lost too much and who can't stomach the idea of losing more.
"Okay," I say softly. "I promise. I’ll be a good girl and listen.”
We both know it's a lie, but the lie makes him breathe easier.
“Uh,” Talia clears her throat. "As touching as this is, we need to move. The gala starts at seven, and we need to get there early and get a lay of the land. Have you made a decision about Helena, Peyton? She needs an answer if she’s going to be any help to us at all.”
“Do y’all think we need her help?” I ask them both, rubbing the emerald stone around my neck as if it’s a lucky talisman.
“It’s your call,” Blake says. “But my advice is yes. If I’m going to be honest, Talia and I, and possibly Nico, aren’t enough.”
“Okay, then, let’s call her.”
***
The drive to Frostbourne Estate is quiet, tense, each of us lost in our own calculations of risk and reward. Blake drives with controlled precision, fast enough to be efficient, careful enough that we don't attract attention. Talia sits in the back, coordinating with a very pleased Helena via encrypted messages.
I watch Wintervale slide past the windows, all Christmas lights and manufactured charm, beauty built on foundations of cruelty. My mother saw through it, tried to expose it, and died for it. Tonight, I finish what she started one way or another.
Frostbourne Estate materializes through the snow like something from a gothic novel. It’s all stone and sharp angles, windows blazing with warm light that promises elegance but delivers danger. The circular drive is packed with expensive cars and drivers waiting in the cold while their employers pretend to be civilized inside.
Blake pulls up to the entrance and hands his keys to a valet who looks terrified of him. Good instincts on that kid.
"Showtime," Talia murmurs, exiting with the grace of someone who's attended a thousand events like this and hated every one.
