But a declaration, quiet and absolute, that I matter enough for him to do the unthinkable.
Julian Lemaire is dead, and I’m not sure who did it.
But I know this—he’s gone, and I’m still here.
Someone ended the threat before it reached me. And whether it was justice, vengeance, or something else entirely—I owe them more than I can name.
I don’t know who saved my life.
But tonight, I get to keep it.
Chapter 29
Bastien Montclaire
Obsession can also comein black paint with a V8 growl.
The valet’s eyes catch on the car before they ever land on me. A black ‘67 Stingray Corvette will do that—sleek lines, the color of midnight, and an engine that purrs low enough to make men forget their names. By the time I glide to a stop, the valet’s already half in love with the damn thing.
He steps forward, opening the door with more care than most people use when handling a newborn. His hand comes up for the keys, slow and eager, gaze never once lifting to my face.
Perfect.
I slip the keys into his palm, and he takes them like a man receiving holy communion. Not a single question or flicker of recognition. He’s too busy memorizing the Stingray’s curves, probably imagining what she can do in his hands.
Let him be obsessed with the car.
Let him forget the driver.
A machine like this devours attention, leaving nothing behind for anyone to notice about the man walking away from it.
And tonight, that’s what I want.
The New Orleans summer air wraps around me, thick as velvet and twice as heavy. The suit fits perfectly—obsidian pressed to precision, a black shirt beneath. No tie.
The mask waits in my hand. Not the one I wear for Laurette. Not a skull that turns death into something intimate and lingers long after I’m gone.
This one has a different purpose. A message.
I had it commissioned, crafted by a local artist who asked too many questions and got paid enough to forget every one of them. A Venetian-style masquerade mask—black lacquer layered with blood-red flourishes, edged in gold leaf, sculpted into something sleek and sharp and hungry. The snout is narrow, and the ears are alert. The eyes are hollow and rimmed in crimson, cut to hunt through a crowd. A predator cloaked in elegance.
And through the openings, my golden-brown eyes will be unmistakable.
Most masks are meant to disguise. This one is meant to announce.
Everyone else will see a wolf. But Laurette will see me.
Herwolf.
The hotel stands proudly, light spotlighting its facade. Inside, the ballroom glows—crystal chandeliers dripping molten light from the ceiling, their reflections shattering across polished marble floors.
Music hums—a string ensemble plays something refined.
Masks gleam, and formal gowns shift with each step. Money, power, and ambition move together in a rhythm older than the city itself.
And tonight, I walk into the center of it wearing a wolf’s face meant for only one woman to understand.
I slip inside, and the crowd doesn’t detect me. People are too busy admiring themselves in mirrored walls, too wrapped up in sequins and champagne to sense danger threading through their orbit.
