I study it, trying to bring the lines and ink to life, searching forsomething concrete, but nothing comes. Frustrated, I let my gaze shift across the paper, landing on another red circle downtown.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Stella St. James. The Princess's handmaiden,” Damon says. “One minute Stella’s on the road running errands, next minute–poof–she’s gone. Same pattern.”
Hunter points to another mark, this one neon green. “There’s no real evidence of where Laura was when she vanished, but there are at least three access points in West End.” He runs his finger over to another green mark, and my stomach drops. “Kelsey was last seen going to her car in a parking lot. There is tunnel access within two hundred yards of where they found her car.”
The pieces settle in my chest like stones. Not heavy exactly. Just… real. “They’re moving through the city under our feet. Taking us without anyone seeing.”
Hunter’s voice is quiet, controlled, “Exactly. That’s why the tunnels matter. They’re not random. They’re a network. And someone’s been using them for a while now.”
“Do you think that maybe that means the explosives are no longer active?” I ask.
“Maybe, but it’s not a risk we can take. The Barons' land has been clear for a long time, we just use them too much. The university has been blocked off, or so we thought, as well as Strong Manor. But for the rest of the city? We’re going to have to make sure we don’t step into one of Lionel’s boobytraps.” Damon’s hand slides higher between my legs, palm cupping me fully now. “We’ll find them,” he says confidently. “And when we do, they’ll regret trespassing on our land and terrorizing our women.”
Of everything I’ve seen or heard said, that’s the one I believe the most.
The guys are stillneck-deep in the library, voices low and focused as they gear up for another tunnel crawl–flashlights, maps, the quietclink of equipment. I slip away before they notice, needing air and something that isn’t blueprints and red ink and the constant reminder that women are disappearing under our feet.
Timothy’s room is quiet when I push the door open. The bed is made, the dark gray sheets crisp the way he likes them. They’re deliciously soft, and the pillows feel like my head is resting on a cloud. His scent lingers, and I press my nose into a jacket hanging behind the door. On the dresser, half-hidden under a stack of folded shirts, I spot a thick cream envelope and pick it up. The font is addressed to Timothy Maddox–delivered to the Maddox Hotel. On the back a crest is pressed into a silver wax seal. I recognize the name: Mercer.
Edging out the card, I peer into the envelope. It’s for a Christmas party.
Tomorrow night.
My fingers tremble as I lift the invitation.
Louis and Tabitha Mercer request the pleasure of your company…
Excitement flickers in my chest–bright, fragile. A Christmas party. Not a coronation or an ascension. Not a ritual. Just a party. I bet there’s a huge tree and music. I picture myself on Timothy’s arm, the new piercings rubbing against his chest while we dance. His hand low on my back. I picture him smiling at me in front of people. Not the King. Just Timothy.
The door opens behind me.
I turn, invitation still in my hand.
He stops in the doorway, coat draped over his forearm, gloves in one fist. His eyes flick from my face to the cream card, then back again. Something shutters in his expression.
“I found this,” I say, voice smaller than I mean it to be. “On the dresser.”
“I brought it back from the hotel with a few other papers.” He steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click. He walks over and takes the invitation from me. “It’s an annual event.”
“I’ll need a dress,” I say quickly. “There’s probably something in my closet already.”
“Arianette.” The way he says my name is firm. Emotionless. “Idon’t think you’re ready for another social event. Not after what happened at the ascension.”
The words land like a slap. My throat tightens.
“I will not put you in another situation like that, not until I’m sure you can handle it.”
“I can handle it,” I argue, although weakly.
“What if you see someone else that triggers you? What if Whitaker walks into the party? Or another member of the community that is involved with this alleged trafficking ring–”
“Alleged?” I repeat. “You don’t believe me?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter anyway. This invitation is for Maddox, not the King. You and I can not attend an event together. It wouldn’t make sense.”
I stare at him. At the unmasked face I thought I was finally starting to know. The man who helped me after my panic attack at the ascension. The man who gave me a family heirloom, and held me through the longest night, who made me feel so good while he fucked me, making my body his.
