Page 46 of Prince of Wrath

Ella

“It will be discreet,” Deputy Prosecutor Maren Garron explains, her untouched coffee cooling between both hands as we sit around Tristan’s kitchen counter, like this is an ordinary afternoon and not a conversation about inviting a monster back into our lives. I am trying really hard to stay still, counting my breaths, looking for sensations, sounds, anything to keep my feet where they are. There are five of us in the kitchen: Tristan, Nate, Detective Brenton, Deputy Prosecutor Garron, and me. Floor plans cover the kitchen island, guest lists, security notes, and small colored stickers marking entrances, exits, staircases, service corridors, and places where he could hide too easily. The smell of coffee and toasted bread still hangs in the air, a pale February light spreading across the marble. Tristan stands beside me instead of sitting, his body close enough that I feel his heat without being touched by it. He has not taken off his suit jacket, though he usually does when he comes home.

His fingers flex against the counter, and to an untrained eye, he would seem composed. Only I can guess that there is a fire raging inside him, destroying everything in its path as his knuckles turn white beside me. Nate sits on my other side with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, and his coffee mug balanced between both hands. There is an ease to him I have never found in Tristan, a nonchalance that seems almost out of place for such a serious man. His eyes keep moving from Tristan to me to the prosecutor, reading everyone quickly enough that I wonder if this is a dance he has done his entire life. Reading the room. Cooling things down when Tristan is about to snap.

“The ball gives us the essential parameters to make Cole believe Ms. Brooks is within reach,” Garron explains. “A crowd. Masks. Limited visibility. And you, sir.” She points at me. “He’ll try because you’re here. Otherwise, he won’t see the point if he cannot rub it in your face. It’s all about ego, which gives us the upper hand. At some point, he may lose sight of the real danger around him, and that’s when we’ll get to him.” Detective Brenton stands near the pantry door with a folder tucked under one arm, broad shoulders tense beneath his suit, while Deputy Garron sits beside him in a charcoal uniform, her voice clear and light, reminding me of voiceovers in soap-operas. “We need to make him believe he has identified an opportunity no one else has seen,” Garron continues. “To believe he has outsmarted Mr. Ashford, his security team, and law enforcement.” She pauses, fingers resting near her coffee. “Cole Vodianov will expect conflict and surveillance. He knows we are most likely waiting for him. So all we have now is the element of surprise, making him believe he can take everything from you without you knowing. We have allowed certain information to reach him through controlled channels, including the claim that Ms. Brooks will not be present tonight. If he sees you there, he may believe he is the only one aware of her presence.” Tristan groans, like a real bear unable to stop his roar. His hand closes around the edge of the counter, and he is about to say something when Nate clears his throat.

“I would like to say, for morale, that letting a delusional criminal feel clever for a minute before arresting him does have a certain comic appeal.” He turns to Garron. “You should work on your punch line before the arrest. It would really add to the whole thing.” No one laughs, but Brenton’s mouth twitches, and Tristan gives him a roll of his eyes. Nate raises his mug to him, as if accepting a compliment.

“What do I have to do?” I sign. Tristan’s hand rests on my shoulder, our new way of affection coming along further and further by the day, although he still asks me every night if he is allowed to sleep next to me in his bed and offers to take the mattress on the floor. Those nights, snuggled against his bare chest, leaving small, wet kisses on his skin, I sense his whole body tense, fighting for more and still waiting, letting me set the pace. Tristan translates for them, but I do not miss the dark shadow beneath his eyes, the controlled panic he is trying so hard to conceal to protect…me.

Garron takes the lead after a nod from Tristan. “Your role is central, but your only goal is to lead him to us. He needs to identify you and believe you may have some sort of trauma bond with him, or that you are conflicted enough to isolate yourself with him.”

Brenton continues, “You will enter like any other guest, in disguise. Three officers will be near you at all times. Here are their pictures. They will be in costumes too, but you will still be able to identify them if necessary.” He slides a small laminated card across the counter. On it are photographs of three people: a woman in a black evening gown, a man with blond hair and a brown golden mask, and a younger man dressed like a waiter.

“Plainclothes officers,” Brenton says. “You do not have to approach them unless you need help. They will be close enough to see you, but not so close that Vodianov notices them first. If you see Cole, we advise you not to react openly.”

“How will I be able to tell you if he saw me?” Tristan translates for me. At this, Deputy Garron slides a black box across the counter and opens it, revealing a blue gemstone necklace with a large heart pendant. At least three times the size of mine.

“It’s an artifact, made by our special devices team,” she explains. “The heart here contains a silent alarm.” She points without touching it. “Press it once, as if you’re, let’s say, adjusting it. That gives Mr. Ashford’s security team and our plainclothes detail a visual signal. One touch means you saw him. Two touches mean he saw you and is following you. Three touches mean you need immediate help.” For a moment, the whole kitchen fades around it as I realize what task I am about to take on. Approaching my jailer. The hand that curled around my throat like an iron claw. My fingers brush the white gold necklace, careful not to touch the heart. It does not seem fake, nor does it look like it is hiding an electronic device. White gold shaped into small branches of frost, set with pale blue stones that catch the kitchen light like trapped winter.

A masquerade ball. I have never been to one. Not even in my wildest dreams. I have seen Valeria, Mara, and Emily get ready for them, though. Helped them make sure their gowns were ironed, their makeup flawless, their hair sprayed to the point that if they encountered a candle, they could have burst into flames. Tristan had someone pick dresses for me upstairs, along with wigs, blond ones, silky and soft and so beautifully made, along with a thin white lace mask over my eyes. Of all the dresses, I’d already picked the one I wanted. Blue, because blue is my lucky color, one my mother used to wear all the time. A strapless silver-blue satin gown, the kind of blue that looks as if it came from a river. Tiny glass beads are embroidered on the lower part, with a bodice turning my waist and chest into a work of art, much more feminine than I would ever dare to be. Which is the point. I will be a bold, seductive blond woman hidden behind thin white lace. Nothing like my long black hair, or my shy nature, which would rather disappear underground than stand in the spotlight.

“Three touches means extraction,” Deputy Garron adds. “Our people will get to you and make sure you are taken somewhere safe.”

“Extraction,” Tristan repeats, grinding his teeth. I can almost see his mind churning with chess moves and old wounds, trying to make sense of my place in this operation, of the risk we are taking and the possibility of losing us in the process.

“It won’t come to that,” I sign to him. He does not translate. Tristan looks at me, and all the anger in his face cracks open into fear.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “Once he sees you, he’ll want to get near you,” Tristan says, his voice stern and emotionless, back behind the armor I seem to be the only one able to see through. Cole will not come for money first, or power, or Tristan, even if he hates him. He will come because he wants to know if he can hurt the one thing that seems to break Tristan.

“He needs to think that I’m alone,” I sign. Tristan pushes away from the counter. Just enough to shift his body toward the window. His hand goes to the back of his neck. Nate watches him, then turns back to Garron.

“Just to clarify,” Nate says, his voice is light, but his eyes carry a harsher tone, “the plan is to let Cole believe Ella is more exposed than she is, while in reality, she will be surrounded by enough law enforcement and private security to make the ballroom look like a very well-dressed trap.”

“That’s a crude description,” Garron says, “but yes, basically, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Nate looks at me. “See? Very well-dressed trap. Practically festive.”

I almost smile. Almost. It disappears when Tristan turns back around.

“How long have we known each other, Deputy Garron?” His tone calls for a challenge, the air getting sucked out of the room in an instant.

“Ever since your father passed away.”

“That’s what I thought.” He paces until he’s standing behind me, one hand possessively clasped around my arm.

“And you have high ambitions, am I right?”

“You do know that bribing a police officer is illegal,” she snaps back, used to the game.

His tone shifts, throwing her warning like a vulgar piece of paper. “If anything happens to Ella, I will see to it personally that your career ends at the very same time she gets hurt. Am I being clear?”

I expect her to retaliate, but instead she gives a clipped nod. “Yes, sir.” So that’s how far his power extends? My hand finds his, resting over it, and I wish I could tell all of them how kind Tristan is. That right now, his threat is only a manifestation of his fear, a leap to try to take control of the things he has no agency over. I love you, I want him to know. Only there are people here, and today has already been too much, so I do not say it. I watch as the room loses tension and everyone gathers their things when Tristan dismisses them.

Deputy Garron comes closer to me before leaving. “You’ll be all right, Ms. Brooks. Do not worry.” I offer her a weak smile, full of hope and what-ifs, and nightmares. Nate smooths his face over after walking Brenton and Deputy Garron to the door. Before he comes back, Tristan bends slightly and presses his mouth to my hair. Then Nate returns, sighing dramatically before gulping his coffee and putting on his suit jacket.

“Tell me you got croissants, because that was a hell of a morning.”