Before she could cross the room, my maid, Emily, had rushed in. “I-I heard a crash,” she’d stammered, her presence a fragile shield. Evilin wouldn’t dare leave a mark, not tonight. Not with a witness who would talk.
“Clean this,” Evilin had snapped, before storming out. I’d slumped against the wall, fighting the encroaching darkness in my vision, my ribs screaming against their cage. Evilin never gave me attention unless it was painful. This party wasn't achange of heart. It was a new, terrifying strategy, and I could only hope to survive it long enough to make my escape.
The memory fades, but the tightness in my chest remains. The line of guests thins as they offer hollow well-wishes and leave their gifts on a table already overflowing. I know Evilin will sift through them later, keeping the best for herself. This charade of generosity is just another tool of her control.
“Happy eighteenth, Wynter!”
The voice is a balm, a single point of warmth in the freezing room. Relief, so potent it almost makes my knees buckle, washes over me as I see Emily, my only friend. Since my father’s death, she has been my lifeline.
“Oh, Emily!” I exclaim, my voice thick with emotion as I take the small, intricately carved wooden box she offers. Inside, a set of exquisite hairpins rests on velvet. “They’re perfect! But I told you not to get me anything.”
“I couldn’t resist,” she replies with a grin, pulling me into a hug that feels like the only real thing that’s happened all night. For a moment, the fear recedes. Maybe, just maybe, this party is a new beginning. But the thought dissolves the instant I see her across the room. Evilin. Watching. Her expression is unreadable, but her gaze is a physical weight that makes my skin crawl.
“How are you holding up?” Emily whispers, her voice a conspiratorial murmur. “That dress is a masterpiece, but you look like you can barely breathe.”
“This is… a lot,” I gesture vaguely to the opulent chaos. “Don’t you think?”
She scrunches her nose. “Maybe Evil is turning over a new leaf,” she muses, the old nickname a small spark of our shared defiance.
“Yeah, maybe…” I trail off, unconvinced.
“Well,” she says, trying to inject some levity, “any cute boys catch your eye?”
Her question is meant as a distraction, but my gaze snags on a figure in the corner, and the rest of the room fades to a muted roar. He is an imposing silhouette of power, his tailored suit doing little to conceal the raw strength in his frame. Long, black hair is pulled back in a severe bun, exposing the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw, dusted with stubble. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive. They are a piercing, glacial blue, and they are fixed on me with an unnerving intensity, as if he can see straight through the silk and the smiles to the frantic bird beating its wings in my chest. He radiates a magnetic stillness, a predator at rest. Every other man in the room seems like a boy in comparison.
A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shoots through me. It’s not just attraction; it’s a primal, terrifying recognition. My friend tugs on my hand, snapping the connection. The party comes roaring back to life, louder and more jarring than before.
“Emily, who is that?” I whisper, my voice unsteady.
Emily follows my gaze and I feel her stiffen beside me. “Oh. Stay away from him, Wyn. That’s… I think that’s Kaden Prince.” She says the name like a curse.
“Should I know who that is?”
She pulls me into a secluded alcove, her eyes darting around. “He’s the head of the largest mafia family in Alaska. The Deadly Seven. They’re not just rumors, Wynter, they’re nightmares. I heard… I heard he drowns men in the frozen rivers for crossing him. And he laughs while he does it.”
The image—a desperate face trapped beneath the ice—flashes in my mind, and a chill that has nothing to do with the Alaskan night seeps into my bones. I risk a glance over my shoulder. Those same icy blue eyes are still on me, and a flicker of something dark and possessive crosses his features. It feels like he just heard Emily's words and found them satisfying. Goosebumps erupt over my skin.
“What is he doing here?” I wonder aloud.
“Nothing good,” Emily pleads. “Please, Wynter. Stay away from him.”
Her warning rings in my ears, but it’s a distant bell against the magnetic pull of his gaze. He is danger personified. He is everything I should run from.So why does a rebellious, self-destructive part of me want to walk straight into the fire?My whole life has been a cage. Maybe it’s time to dance with the devil.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t see Evilin approach, her presence a sudden drop in temperature. “Wynter,” she says, her voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. “It is unbecoming to sequester yourself. Mingle. And try to converse with those who matter, not… thehelp.” Her disdainful gaze dismisses Emily like a piece of lint on a coat.
I mouth “I’m sorry” to Emily as Evilin’s fingers dig into my arm, yanking me back toward the center of the room. The sting is a familiar promise of the pain she prefers to inflict behind closed doors. I force the mask of a smile back onto my face, a puppet on her strings.
After an eternity of forced pleasantries, Evilin is distracted by a wealthy dignitary. I seize the moment, slipping away onto a deserted balcony. The frigid air is a welcome shock, clearing my head. I gaze out at the snow-covered gardens, my sanctuary. Evilin’s disdain for anything natural or untamed meant she never set foot there, leaving it as my only true refuge. My mind drifts back to a happier time, a time of warmth and gentle hands.
“Wyn, you’ve got to pat the ground gently,” my mother’s voice, fragile as a bird’s wing, whispered. I’d copied her movements, my small hands pressing dirt around the base of a new apple tree. My father had told me she was unwell, but in my child’s mind, I thought she’d be with me forever.
“This tree will grow up with you, my love,” she’d murmured, a tear tracing a path through the dirt on her hollow cheek. The sight of it was a physical blow, the first time I truly saw the illness devouring her.
“I’ll always be here with you,” she promised. “Whenever you need me, come sit by our tree, and that’s where I’ll be.”
The memory dissolves as a gust of wind bites at my skin. The tranquility is gone, replaced by the cold reality of my situation. I take one last breath of the clean, cold air before turning back to the ballroom. As I near the entrance, I hear voices from a nearby room. A low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, a sound of pure, masculine authority.
“I want my payment tonight.”
