“No sign of additional personnel beyond authorized list.”
I acknowledge each report with subtle finger taps against my champagne flute while maintaining the facade of the charming host. New York City’s elite mill about in their finery, faceless behind elaborate masks, unaware of the currents running beneath this carefully orchestrated spectacle.
“Mr. Reed, such a magnificent event,” purrs the wife of Judge Carlton, her peacock feather mask bobbing as she speaks.
I offer her a smile I’ve perfected for these occasions. “You’re too kind.”
My attention never wavers from Jax, who stands across the room in a silver wolf mask that does nothing to disguisethe predator beneath. He’s surrounded by his personal security detail. All of them are men I don’t recognize. Not Vipers. Outsiders.
A ripple moves through the crowd near the main entrance. The sea of guests’ parts, and I freeze.
Aurora.
She steps into the ballroom in a midnight-black gown that clings to her body like a second skin, crystals cascading down the fabric like stars falling through darkness. Her mask is black with lace patterns, covering just enough to make her mysterious while leaving the lower half of her face exposed.
For one unguarded moment, I forget about Jax, about the Vipers, about the danger surrounding us. I forget everything except the sight of her.
I force myself back to reality, discreetly activating the tracking app on my phone. The diamond necklace is in pride of place around her neck. Good. If anything happens, I’ll know exactly where she is.
I move through the crowd, acknowledging guests with enough attention to satisfy their egos, not enough to invite extended conversation. My target never wavers: Aurora.
When we finally converge near the ornate ice sculpture, I extend my hand formally. “Miss Harrison, I’m delighted you could attend.”
She places her hand in mine, her fingers trembling beneath my grip. To anyone watching, we’re simply host and guest exchanging pleasantries. The perfect picture of propriety.
I lean forward, my lips brushing her ear as I turn her slightly, positioning my back to Jax’s line of sight. My voice drops to barely a whisper.
“Stay visible. Don’t go anywhere alone. If we’re separated, find Penn immediately.”
Her eyes widen behind her mask, but she recovers, offering a polite smile. “The event is magnificent, Mr. Reed.”
“The necklace suits you,” I say, my fingers brushing the diamond tracking device at her throat. I release her hand and step back, my public persona firmly in place. “Please, enjoy the evening.”
Throughout the next hour, I maintain constant awareness of two things: Aurora’s position and Jax’s movements. The pattern becomes unmistakable. Whenever Aurora shifts to a new location, Jax adjusts his position accordingly.
He’s watching her.
When Aurora joins a circle of socialites near the string quartet, Jax abandons his conversation with Senator Mitchell—a man whose campaign he personally financed—to casually drift in her direction.
My jaw clenches as Jax approaches her, offering a champagne flute, which she accepts with obvious hesitation.
This is unprecedented. Jax typically ignores members’ partners, viewing them as liabilities or, at best, convenient facades. Yet here he is, engaging Aurora in what appears to be an animated conversation, his silver wolf mask tilted attentively toward her.
I intercept Penn near the eastern bar. “What the fuck is happening?”
Penn’s eyes track my concern to where Jax stands entirely too close to Aurora. “Never seen him give two shits about a woman before. Not like this.”
“Keep your people on him. I want to know if he so much as breathes in her direction when I’m not looking.”
Something’s off.
I track one of Jax’s security personnel. He’s a broad-shouldered man with military bearing, abandoning his post near the champagne fountain to reposition himself beside thenortheast exit. Three minutes later, another one shifts to cover the service corridor leading to the kitchen. Within fifteen minutes, I count six personnel changes, all centralizing control over the room’s escape routes.
“Hunt,” Penn’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “We’ve identified fifteen guests not on the approved list.”
I spot one immediately. A woman in a crimson dress and raven mask. Her posture is too alert. When she brushes past Senator Harlow, her hand briefly touches his lower back, checking for a weapon.
“They’re running counter-surveillance,” I murmur into my concealed mic. “These aren’t socialites. They’re operatives.”
