The others enter ahead of us, slipping through security. Talon, Jasper, and I wait until their signal pings my phone.
Zane:
Inside
Talon bumps his shoulder into mine as we approach the doors, his voice a low murmur only meant for me and Jasper. “Dre. Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” I growl.
Jasper signs,“Liar.”
“Both of you can fuck off,” I mutter.
They share a look, and I hate how well they read me, but I also need them for that.
We make it up the steps, and past the guards with our invitations. They are all blank-faced men in suits. Probably Syndicate, definitely disposable. Meaning, if we came in guns blazing, they would make the sacrifice that’s necessary.
One steps aside and I notice his pupils lag a half-second behind the rest of him.
Jasper’s dad works for a company that creates these masks. They are seamless silicone overlays fused to muscle with micro-receptors meant to mimic expression, breath, and even blinking. Civilians never notice—Hell, most don’t. But Jasper’s dad made sure we were trained to spot the flaws.
The masks are expensive, high-tech, and fucking terrifying if you don’t know what you’re looking at. They let the Syndicate move through a room as ghosts wearing stolen skin.
I fucking hate them.
Hate the way they smile wrong.
Hate the way they breathe wrong.
Hate the way they remind me that Mara is trapped in a world where monsters wear human faces and expect her to pretend to be perfect.
Under the archway, the air shifts and the music gets louder. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of power beneath my feet keep me buzzed.
I scan the room, noticing how many Syndicate members are here. It makes sense. Most of the Syndicate are Psi Theta Omega members, and with Mara and Chase being the newest Kate and William of the PTO royal family, it would make sense that most high-ranking Syndicate members are here.
They’re everywhere.
Sharks. Pretty, polished predators.
Zane drifts past and whispers, “If one of those things blinks wrong, I’m screaming.”
Knox, beside him, pats his back and pulls him the opposite way. “Please, don’t.”
Talon and Jasper melt toward the rear exit, shoulders tight against the wall—two shadows guarding the escape route.
I push deeper into the warm, breathing mass of guests. The crowd is laughing, gossiping, and drinking champagne like this is actually a happy occasion. Lights glide across marble and polished brass.
She’s here somewhere; I feel it. It’s like a hot wire buried under my skin—humming, dragging me toward her. My pulse doesn’t know the difference between fear and fury anymore.
Then, my world stops, literally freezes mid breath as she steps onto the mezzanine.
Mara.
She wears a white dress that hugs her waist, her bare shoulders exposed. Her hair is in a sleek bun, and her smile is brittle glass, reflecting the room back in pretty, lethal shards.
She’s acting.
I know the real lines of her body, the way her shoulders soften when she’s safe, the way her breath stutters when she’s nervous.
