Elias curves his lips, the smile terrifying.
“Your Rite is complete, Mr. Kent. Welcome to The Association, where all the power you can imagine will be yours.”
I don’t see his response because Tristan clicks the phone shut. Air rushes out of me, and I force myself to let go of the tablecloth.
“A camera in a floral arrangement. A rare oversight for them.” Tristan looks at me, clearly sympathetic. “Do you understand what you’re up against,Miss Anderson?”
He’s using my maiden name again.
“You can’t do this alone,” he continues. “Your life is at stake. Your family’s lives are at stake. You’re married to the enemy—a very dangerous man who would risk everything, even the lives of everyone he cares about, for power. Don’t you find that terrifying?”
A breath rattles out of me. I grip my cup and bring it to my lips, needing to do something with my hands. The liquid is cold. Bitter. The china clatters when I set it down.
“Wh-What do you want me to do?” I whisper.
“Spy for me. Take pictures. Notes. I’ll walk you through it.”
My mind is a mess. If I help Tristan, I’m betraying Elias, and the king of the underworld shows no mercy. But if I don’t, I’m leaving my family at the mercy of The Association. Either way, we might all die.
I’m in way over my head.
“Lana,” he rasps.
The concerned tone in Tristan’s voice snags my attention.
A muscle tics in his jaw, and for a moment, the emotion swimming in his eyes is clear.
It’s pain.
“I know it’s overwhelming,” he says. “I know you don’t trust me. But I really don’t want to see you hurt. Think about your family, the people who care about and love you. If anything happens to you, how will they go on?”
A lump thickens in my throat. Images of my family flash in my mind and my heart constricts.
“Let me help you.” Tristan slips me a card with his contact information. “That’s my private line. Encrypted. Call me anytime.”
Before I can respond, he stiffens. Slowly he rises, his hand reaching for his holster as he looks at something behind me.
I smell it before I turn—the familiar scent of vetiver and smoke. My skin prickles. My spine locks.
Elias.
“Well, well, well. Tristan Clarke.” His tone is calm but dangerous. “It’s rude of you to invite my wife out for tea without letting me know. And a gun,” Elias tsks, “really?”
“It’s Special Agent Clarke to you. Your wife has a mind of her own. She can make her own decisions.”
The two men stare each other down.
My mind riots, excuses tangling on my tongue.
Elias steps to my right, the sound of his shoes hitting the floor—thump, thump, thump—matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. He looks down at me, his gaze suddenly soft as he lifts a gloved finger and traces my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine.
“My princess,” he murmurs. “Did you miss me?”
“Elias—”
“It’s okay. I don’t blame you.” His voice is smooth, almost gentle. He sounds like he’s soothing a spooked animal instead of catching his wife with the FBI.
Elias murmurs, “You’re just looking out for me, Lana. I’m not mad. What does the fed want with our newlywed bliss?”
