Page 49 of Prince of Wrath

“Good evening, sir,” she mouths silently. I hold on to every syllable while my brain promptly forgets every language I have ever spoken.

“Ms…” I clear my throat. “You… I mean…” Wonderful. Brilliant start. “I…” My tongue refuses to cooperate. “Enjoy your evening.” Absolute poetry.

She gives me a shy smile, the kind I have learned is earned by relentless care, patience, and attention. Enough to make every rational thought evaporate. Watching her feels suspiciously close to a religious experience. If I ever find myself standing before God, I fully intend to defend that statement.

“Right, right,” Nate says brightly, rescuing me before I embarrass myself further. “Welcome, miss. Please enjoy the evening.” Only then do I notice the queue stretching halfway down the staircase. Hell. I had forgotten there were hundreds of other guests. Ella gives us a polite nod before disappearing into the ballroom. Vanishing from sight. Not from me, though. My entire nervous system remains painfully aware of where she is. Breathing the same air. Walking toward the most dangerous man she has ever known. I resist the urge to adjust the communication earpiece hidden beneath my collar.

“Well…” Nate murmurs once she is gone.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Then don’t.”

“You looked at her like a starving man.”

“I absolutely did not.” He snorts.

“Anyone could have figured out she’s yours. You have to be more careful. Act cold as shit. I’m not kidding.” The word settles somewhere dangerously close to my heart.

Yours. Being cold to Ella is unnatural. Painful. Ella and I do not even have a name for whatever we are. No rings or official status. Yet somewhere deep inside me, beneath logic and reason and common sense, exists a certainty so absolute it feels woven into the laws of nature. The earth turns. Fire burns. The tide answers the moon. And Ella belongs beside me. Because every future I can imagine ends with her hand finding mine.

The months of restraint, the nights spent forcing myself to slow down every instinct, every agonizing second had been worth it. Because somewhere along the way, I discovered something about myself. Making her smile brings me more satisfaction than closing a billion-dollar acquisition. More than any hostile takeover, any victory, any assertion of dominance. More than anything I had ever mistaken for fulfillment.

For thirty endless minutes, Nate and I continue welcoming guests while I catalog every disguised officer in the ballroom without ever appearing to look directly at them. Deputy Garron. Brenton. Two tactical units. North balcony. West corridor. Everyone is in position.

Garron’s voice crackles softly through my earpiece, “He’s here.” Every muscle inside me locks. “He entered through the staff entrance.” I keep smiling at an elderly donor shaking my hand. “White tuxedo.” Another handshake. “Red mask covering the entire face.” My pulse hammers against my ribs. “Two bodyguards. White ghost masks.” I swallow carefully. Nate does not say a word. He can probably hear my heartbeat from here.

It is her turn now. My hands are tied. I thought I understood torture back in juvenile detention. I thought solitary confinement had shown me the limits of human suffering. How naïve. There is no agony like standing still while the person you love walks into danger, knowing that saving her too soon may be the very thing that gets her killed.

Ella

Champagne is definitely not giving me the courage I had hoped for. I swallowed nearly an entire flute in three gulps, wincing after each one, only to discover that, for my first taste of alcohol, it’s disappointingly bitter. I tighten my fingers around the delicate stem, seeking liquid confidence. Breathe. My pulse has not settled since I stepped through the ballroom doors. Not since I saw Tristan.

I expected him to look handsome, because he always is. What I wasn’t prepared for was him looking at me like that. His mask concealed the upper half of his face, but it couldn’t hide his eyes. I watched them darken first with relief, then soften with something so achingly tender it stole the air from my lungs, before hardening again as he forced himself back into the role of gracious host. It happened in less than a heartbeat, yet I caught every shift.

Golden drapes cascade from windows that stretch nearly to the ceiling, crystal chandeliers scatter an amber light over polished marble, and silver trays float through the crowd carrying miniature desserts so carefully crafted they look more like artwork than food. Everywhere I turn, elegant strangers hide behind masks embroidered with pearls, feathers, and gold leaf, smiling politely as they pass me. There are too many voices, too many people weaving around one another in beautiful gowns and immaculate tuxedos until they blur into a single moving wall. Every time someone brushes my shoulder, I fight the instinct to recoil, and every time a man speaks too loudly, my stomach tightens.

“Walk through the guests, Ella.” Deputy Garron’s calm voice crackles softly through the hidden earpiece nestled beneath my blond hair. “Let him find you. If you hide, he won’t approach. We need to keep this as efficient as possible and minimize casualties.” Casualties. The word echoes inside my skull. Of course. This is not only about me. I draw a slow breath through my nose before forcing my feet to move, reminding myself to smile, nod, pretend, and keep walking. I murmur silent greetings to strangers, accepting polite smiles as I move through clusters of conversations that dissolve into white noise. Every few seconds, my eyes betray me by drifting toward the entrance despite every promise I made myself not to look. I catch only glimpses of Tristan between shoulders and evening gowns. His mother, magnificent in a dark, bloody red. Nate beside him. Tristan greeting guests with effortless composure, almost. Because I know where to look. His foot taps beneath the tablecloth covering the registration desk, invisible unless someone happens to glance downward. The muscle in his jaw tightens every few seconds. He adjusts his cuff, then adjusts it again. My man, trying so desperately to appear calm while every instinct inside him is probably screaming to come and stand beside me. I love you, I wish he could hear me say.

“And who do we have here?” A voice drifts against my ear like poison poured into honey. Every muscle in my body seizes, and before I even turn, the smell reaches me. That same metallic aftershave crawls into my lungs until suddenly I am not standing beneath chandeliers anymore.

Concrete. Darkness. Chains. Shower hose. Shouting. Barking. Repeat. My fingers shoot instinctively toward the emergency necklace hidden beneath my bodice. No. Too soon. Not yet.

“Keep calm,” Deputy Garron says through the earpiece. “You’re doing well.” They are watching. I am not alone. It’s different this time. I am not trapped in a basement with nowhere to run, and I am not helpless anymore. I repeat the words until they almost sound believable. I am in control. A lie, maybe, but a necessary one, because sometimes bravery is not the absence of fear. It is simply refusing to let terror drive your decisions. Across the ballroom, Tristan’s head snaps toward me so abruptly my heart lurches. He finds me instantly. Of course he does. His eyes meet mine for barely a fraction of a second before I force myself to look away. Don’t let Cole see. Don’t let him uncover how deeply we are woven into each other, so deeply they would have to bury us side by side if tonight goes wrong.

“Blonde suits you.” Cole’s voice is almost pleasant. Anyone listening would mistake us for old acquaintances exchanging harmless conversation. I turn toward him, sweat gathering in my palms. He’s wearing a white tuxedo with a red mask, the color of the devil, which suits him well since he’s the personification of evil.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, darling,” he coos with a soft chuckle. “Turns out you’ve been hiding at his place all along.” Ice floods my veins. How much has he figured out? “I knew they’d disguise you,” he continues. “To think they actually believed I wouldn’t recognize my bird…” He laughs, then trails off. “Fools.” Coles takes the champagne flute from my hand and sets it on a nearby tray. “Not only have I spent the evening speaking with several investors who don’t mind getting their hands dirty and moving their business away from your boyfriend…” His eyes sweep slowly over me. “I also intend to leave tonight with a prize.” The back of his fingers skims across my cheek with unbearable familiarity, and my stomach lurches. “We’ll do things differently this time.” For one horrifying second, I am not wearing silk beneath crystal chandeliers. I’m sitting, barely dressed, beneath fluorescent lighting while he orders me to eat with my hands, dried blood still tangled in my hair. I fight the urge to gag.

Somewhere across the ballroom, Tristan’s gaze burns into the side of my face. “So here’s what’s going to happen.” His smile never wavers, fake enough that anyone watching us would mistake us for lovers whispering secrets in the middle of a masquerade. “I’m going to take your hand, and without a fight, you’re gonna follow me, because, you see Ella, I’ve got a nine-millimeter sitting comfortably in my holster right now, and if you do something foolish, like trying to run, I’ll blow this lovely little head of yours off your shoulders before your boyfriend even realizes what’s happening.” Something inside me shuts down. Completely. It is as though every door inside my mind slams shut at once, each one locking behind the other until I am standing somewhere deep inside myself, pounding against walls that refuse to open while my body remains outside, perfectly still, obedient, breathing because lungs apparently remember how to do their job even when the rest of me has forgotten. What is happening? What about the plan?

First, the music dissolves. Violins were floating through the ballroom only seconds ago, but now they disappear beneath a low vibration that grows louder in my ears until it resembles an ancient chant carried by a thousand unseen voices. Suddenly, the ballroom no longer exists as crystal and silk and expensive perfume, but as blurred colors bleeding into one another while faces lose their features and become moving shapes I no longer recognize. His hand closes around mine. My gut makes a double spin. My fingers fold around him almost automatically as I shut down.

“You’re doing so well, darling.” His breath brushes the shell of my ear, carrying with it that same dusty aftershave that has seeped into every nightmare I have had since escaping, and revulsion tears through me with such violence that I suddenly want to sink my teeth into his face. Not to defend myself but to hurt him, to feel cartilage beneath my jaw until he finally understands what it means to be trapped inside a body that no longer belongs to you. The thought horrifies me almost as much as he does. What is happening to me?

Every emotion crashes against another until I no longer know which one belongs to the woman I am and which one belongs to the girl who learned to survive underground. One part of me wants to wrench my hand free and run until my lungs burst, while another whispers that following him is easier, that resisting only delays the inevitable, that perhaps if I am good enough, he will leave me alone afterward. Somewhere beneath those two strangers is the real me, clawing desperately at the surface, begging to be let back inside her own life.