36. Chapter 36

Contrary to what men believed, a woman can only spend so much time in the bathroom.

I know I have to come out at some point but I can't stop myself from leaning heavily on the white marble surrounding the sink and taking several deep breaths before glancing up at myself in the mirror.

Cocking my head to the side, I try to see myself the way Deacon seems to see me.

For the first time in my life, it's actually not that difficult.

Over these many weeks, the volume of that little voice that's always plagued me seems to have been turned down, to the point that I barely even hear her anymore.

At first, it was hard to combat the years of ingrained degradation, ridicule, and self-loathing.

With Deacon's help, I've been learning to love myself: my weight, scars, and many flaws.

Even though I know I shouldn't need a man to validate me, if I'm honest, it hasn't hurt.

Sure, I probably could've done it by myself but there's just something about walking into a room where a man who sees you as the epitome of feminine beauty is waiting, who makes you light up from the inside out.

That's how he makes me feel.

What truly makes me believe that it's real is the fact that I get the same look whether I'm dressed as I am now, in a stunning silk gown or in sweats and a baggy t-shirt.

I've come a long way from that insecure high school girl who was defined by the fact that she was always a little more than slightly overweight.

I've also come a long way from the scarred young woman who was left behind in the wake of Dante, not once but twice.

I no longer see haunted eyes and pale cheeks staring back at me from the mirror.

I'm scared, but I know what I have to do and am resolved to see it through.

If Dante is still alive, he'll be here tonight because he knows this is where I'll be.

Not only because it's my family's home but because we've deliberately made the information known.

I've resigned myself to being bait because I may not get another chance to end this once and for all.

I'm sick of running, being afraid and always looking over my shoulder.

I want a life, a real life, and not just the feeling of living on borrowed time.

I wanna be able to trust men again.

One man, in particular.

A man I know is waiting for me outside the bathroom door.

I know he's not too happy about using me to lure Dante out.

He made that very clear, but considering it's our best shot, he didn't really have a choice.

In the end, as much as I could tell he wanted to fight, he recognized that it had to be my decision.

Smoothing my hands down the hips of my floor length blue silk dress, I do a quick turn to see the back.

I still don't necessarily like having my scars on display, but I also know that with everyone here wearing masks, my tattoos will stand out like a beacon.

That was the main reason I chose this dress.

Its halter style top came all the way up to my neck in the front but exposed my entire back.

Between that and the slit that reaches nearly to my hip bone, I might be exposing more skin than I'm covering.

It's not my usual red, and as much as I could use the boost in confidence that the color affords me, something tells me that Deacon's reaction to how the dress fits me will be all the boost I need.

I do one final check of my hair and makeup in the mirror before pulling the small navy blue mask from my clutch and putting it on.

It fit very much like a pair of glasses, the ties made of metal instead of ribbon, and they weave their way seamlessly through my updo, hiding any visible lines.

I move to the door, opening it wide, and, just as expected, Deacon stands sentinel right outside.

I hate to admit with his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, he cleans up pretty good.

His suit is the same dark blue as my mask; his tie and half domino nearly match my dress perfectly.

Did he do that on purpose? No, he had no idea what dress I'd be wearing tonight.

I didn't choose one until we got here.

As I step out into the corridor, his attention pivots in my direction, away from where he seems to be surveying the ballroom below.

At the sound of my heels on the marble tiles, those bright blue eyes meet mine before slowly perusing my body.

That look might as well be his fingertips ghosting over me.

Everywhere his eyes touch, corresponding goosebumps spring up.

Barely suppressing a shiver, I feel the warmth accompanying the light I mentioned before.

I embrace the heat and place one hand on my hip, sauntering closer to him.

As I watch, his jaw flexes, and his eyes darken dangerously.

He's too easy.

He takes a step closer to me, and I hold up a hand as I say, "Don't even think about it.

No touching.

I spent nearly two hours on my hair and makeup, and I'm not about to let you fuck it up by making me all sweaty."

Eyes molten glass, he says, "Your hair and makeup aren't the only things I wanna fuck up, and I promise you, it wouldn't take much from me to make you sweat.

Besides, you knew what you were doing when you picked out that dress."

Stepping forward until his chest meets my outstretched hand, he forces my back to the wall behind me.

In a low voice, he says, "You're wearing my favorite color, did you know that? It makes me wonder if what's underneath matches."

Even though my breathing has become slightly erratic, I still arch a brow, somehow managing to look down my nose at him despite the fact that he's a head taller than me.

"Who says I'm wearing anything underneath?"

Letting out a low growl, he says, "Careful, brat.

You keep teasing me like that, and I'll have you back in that bathroom and bent over the sink before that forked-tongue of yours can voice a single protest.

If I recall correctly, you have an affinity for bathroom countertops now.

Besides, I guarantee that if you're not wearing my favorite color under that dress, you're wearing my second favorite."

He gives me a lascivious grin before adding, "Pink."

I can feel my cheeks flush at his words … which is absolutely ridiculous because I don't get embarrassed.

Especially not by dirty talk about how pink my pussy is.

For some reason, though, the way this man speaks to me makes me wanna climb him like a tree … or find a chainsaw and cut the tree down to a stump.

My feelings change from minute to minute.

As much as I wanna push the envelope and see where it takes us, I know we don't have time for this.

We need to stay focused.

So, I do my best to erase all thoughts of finding some random closet and letting Deacon fuck my brains out.

Instead, I use the hand that's now trapped between us to give his chest a hard shove.

Thankfully, he allows the distance, stepping back, but not before giving me a cheeky little wink.

As he turns back to the railing that overlooks the ballroom once more, he holds out his arm.

For a moment, I'm struck at how seamlessly he transitions from the grumbly bear I've spent weeks holed up with to this gentleman straight out of a Regency romance novel.

With a look of bemusement, I place my hand gracefully in the crook of his elbow, and we make our way down the corridor.

Just as we near the top of the grand staircase, a ridiculously muscular man in a sharp black suit and matching domino reaches the top step, turning in our direction.

Panic flares inside me before my brain registers that the man is far too young to be Dante.

Yet, he seems familiar.

Like puzzle pieces clicking into place, my suspicions are confirmed when Deacon groans next to me and says, "Fucking Hell.

Did Merrick call you or did you tap my damn phone too?"

The other man brings a hand up to his face, subtly scratching his jaw with his middle finger.

It's then that I notice the tattoos on his knuckles.

Ah, so it is the hot FBI agent.

Lips curling in a deliberately enticing smile, I project an amount of sex appeal that would normally be based on false bravado but has somehow shifted into actual confidence and say, "Wow, Deacon.

I knew this dress was dangerous but I didn't think the way I'm wearing it was a crime."

Meeting Alexi's eyes, I hold out my hands and wrists together and turn them upwards before saying, "I'm ready to be cuffed, Agent Kapranov."

The innuendo in my tone is clear not only by the quirk of Alexi's lips but also by the possessive hand that suddenly appears on my hip, pulling me against a hard body.

A small spike of fear at the possibility that I've pushed too far has my spine straightening, but as I look up to see Deacon's murderous gaze not on me but on the man opposite, a sudden realization hits me like a ton of bricks in the face.

He's not trying to rein me in at all.

He's looking for the Russian's reaction.

I don't doubt that he'd be ready to throw down if Alexi so much as looked at me inappropriately, despite the fact that I started it.

I stand there dumbfounded while they just stare at each other.

Dante would never have allowed me to get away with that type of behavior.

He would've jerked me up, taken me home, called me a whore, and punished me.

It dawns on me that Deacon's never once made me feel like I'm doing something wrong by being … me.

Sure, we've swatted at each other, but he's never made me feel cheap or filthy or damaged.

While I grapple with this newest revelation, Agent Kapranov keeps his eyes on Deacon but replies to me.

His Russian accent is front and center, proving just how comfortable he is with us now, "Siren, I don't think there's a prison on Earth that could hold you once you decide you don't want to be held."

I think about his words for a long moment.

Was that for Deacon's benefit or is there some deeper meaning in it? The other night at the meeting with what I've now come to consider my own little found family, I finally unburdened myself of the secret I've held for three long years.

While there was a range of emotions from most of the room, from horror to sympathy, very little was shown from the stoic FBI agent.

Almost as though what I was divulging wasn't exactly new information to him.

Or maybe he's just emotionally constipated; who knows?

My thoughts are interrupted when Alexi steps forward, face going back to all business.

Lowering his tone to barely more than a whisper, he says, "To answer your question, yes, Merrick called me.

That call should've come from you, but we'll talk about that later.

We have a bigger issue to deal with.

I think he's here.

Gaspari, I mean.

A car registered to one of his men was picked up by a street camera not far from here.

The windows were dark, but there was definitely more than one person inside.

I'm not sure if he's actually in the house yet or if he is, even how he got in since we're watching all of the entrances, but I believe he is indeed planning to make his next move tonight."

As Deacon glances down at me, concern is clearly written on every line of his face.

I read it in his eyes, too.

"I don't like this.

I don't like being on the defensive, and I don't like leaving you vulnerable."

"We talked about this.

It's the only way to lure him out.

If he's out there, I'll never be free until he's dead,"

I say, shooting a furtive glance at Alexi as I finish the sentence.

If the Fed cares about me making another murder attempt, he doesn't let on.

He looks entirely unbothered.

Maybe because he knows Dante deserves to be six feet under a prison instead of in one.

Or perhaps because he's got more than a few skeletons in his own closet, so the notion of taking a life doesn't even phase him.

"You don't leave my line of sight for a second, understand?"

Deacon stares at me, waiting for a response.

For a moment, I want to argue, but looking into his eyes, I see concern and apprehension and fear.

So, I let the words die on my tongue.

As I nod my agreement, he turns to Alexi and says, "Let's finish this then."

Holding out his arm again, he begins to lead me down the stairs.

Turning back, I see that Alexi has disappeared.

I have to assume this is part of some telepathically-made plan because Deacon doesn't even turn back to look.

As we descend the stairs, my eyes dart back and forth around the foyer below.

On the one hand, I feel confident that I could recognize Dante in the dark, so spotting him, even with a mask, should be easy.

On the other hand, I'm terrified that literally anyone down there could be working for him.

As we near the bottom, Deacon's other hand rests over the one I have placed on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

As I glance up, I find that he's not even looking at me.

He just somehow knew that I was on the verge of panicking.

I swear to God, every time I think I've hardened myself to the idea of this man, he does some stupidly sappy shit like this, and I practically melt for him.

Taking the comfort where I can find it, I take a deep breath and try to slow down my racing heart.

As we mingle around the foyer, we pass face after face, each one masked, but even so, I can discount the majority of them.

Too tall, not tall enough.

Too old, too young.

Many men are with other women, which isn't entirely out of the question for Dante, but I have a feeling that he'll be on his own.

Less baggage to deal with when he decides to make his move.

"He's not in here.

Should we go into the ballroom?"

I ask Deacon in a hushed tone.

After another quick perusal of the area, he nods and leads me towards an open set of large French doors.

The music, which was low in the foyer, becomes much louder as we enter the main ballroom of my family's home.

I always liked this room.

With its high ceilings, the acoustics were fantastic.

When I was younger, I would set up a chair in the middle of the vast empty room and play for hours.

The only people able to hear me were the hired help and they pretended like I wasn't even there.

Something I was quite used to by that point.

But that was fine.

I always played for myself anyway.

It wasn't until much later that I lost the ability to play for myself , instead being forced to play for someone else.

Just another thing to hate Dante for .

I look around the crowded ballroom, but nothing jumps out at me as being overly suspicious.

Looking up at Deacon, I say, "Can you dance? It'll give us a chance to survey the room without being too conspicuous."

He gives me a wounded look as if my doubting for even a second that he doesn't know how to dance has broken his heart.

Without saying a word, he leads me to the middle of the dance floor.

Pulling me in close, he clasps one of my hands in his own, and I feel the other hand come up to rest just above the curve of my ass.

The touch is deliberately low and definitely not appropriate for the setting and I wonder if he's doing it subconsciously or if it's just another tactic.

Maybe he thinks that by making Dante angry, he'll make a mistake? Either way, I absorb the touch like a sponge.

I no longer automatically flinch when he touches me in places like that.

Places I used to believe had a little too much padding.

Now, in fact, I wait with bated breath for those touches to turn into the feel of his fingertips digging into my flesh.

Suddenly, I feel the thumb of his hand start to make small circles against the bare skin of my back.

Those blue eyes bore holes in mine as I look up at him.

"You're the most beautiful woman here, did you know that?"

he says, his tone so serious that I actually start to believe him.

Still, I scoff as I retort, "You haven't seen every woman here."

Without hesitation, he says, "I don't need to."

Then he's pulling me closer, and we're swaying in slow circles, in time to the music.

The man actually can dance and for a moment, I let myself pretend this isn't a life-or-death situation and we aren't in the middle of a plot to try and trap a criminal mastermind with more lives than a cat.

For a moment, we're just two people dancing with each other in a crowded ballroom.

Two people who fight as much as we fuck.

Who's love language is trading barbs until tension is mounted so high that it's combustible.

Wait.

Love language? Love? No.

No, no, no.

Mouth dropping open in shock, I berate myself, acknowledging that this is not the time or place for this kind of revelation.

Not that I can think of any good time or place for this kind of revelation, but still.

When you're the worm dangling on a hook, waiting for a giant fish to come try and gobble you up, it wasn't the best time to realize that you might be in love with the most stubborn man on the planet.

A man who drank cold coffee and had hair almost as long as yours.

A man who ate off of paper plates and left cupboard doors open.

A man who … would sit and listen to you play for hours and never take his eyes off you.

A man who covered you with a blanket when you fell asleep on the couch.

Who left you the last fried wonton despite having grown up starving.

Who tucked your hair behind your ear so he could see your face better.

Fuck .

I'm in love with Deacon Taylor.

I let out a little puff of air before picking my jaw up off the floor.

So this is what this feels like.

How could I have ever mistaken what I felt with Dante for this? This is … annoying.

And perfect.

Double fuck .

I will away the glassy film that's developed over my vision as I force my mind to get back to the task at hand.

I'll have to worry about this love situation later when the timing is better.

Like never.

As I take in one masked face after another, it's clear that Dante isn't here.

"This isn't gonna work.

He's not here.

Maybe Alexi's intel was wrong?"

I say, "Or maybe he just knows there's no way for him to get to me if I'm standing with you in the middle of a crowded room."

"Well, you're not going anywhere on your own, so don't even think about it,"

he replies.

Huffing, I say, "You don't have to.

But maybe you could … pretend to.

Give him a chance to make his move.

I'll go to the bathroom.

You can watch me, in case he makes an appearance.

If he follows me, he'll be cornered in there."

Before I've even finished, he's shaking his head.

"No, I don't like that idea."

"Fine.

Then you come up with something,"

I say.

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

He knows he doesn't have a better plan, and he hates it.

Giving his head a small hard shake, he says, "Goddammit.

Fine.

But if he hasn't shown up by the time you come out, we're leaving.

We'll go home and reassess the situation.

Try to come up with another plan."

Home .

I don't think he realizes that the way he said it makes it sound like our home.

But I can't point that out or even dwell on that at the moment.

He's right.

If he hasn't shown himself by the time I come back, he may not be coming at all.

"Okay,"

I say simply.

I see his eyes narrow behind his mask like he doesn't really believe that I'd give in that easily.

Probably because I normally would put up more of a fight, but being in settings like this makes me remember the times that Dante used to parade me around, and it makes my skin crawl.

Disengaging from Deacon's hold, I walk towards the hallway leading to the bathroom.

At the last second, Deacon grabs my hand, and I feel his warm, calloused palm against my own.

"Five minutes,"

he says, voice like steel.

Nodding, I reluctantly release his hand and make my way through the crowded room.

I take the turn that will lead me down the hallway and nearly run right into another woman's back.

Stopping short, I see a line of about 12 women standing in the hallway, all seemingly waiting for their turn in the bathroom.

Shit .

Making a split-second decision, I bypass the line and go through an open archway at the end of the hall that leads back to the foyer.

Knowing there's another guest bathroom on the other side, I quickly cross the foyer, praying there isn't a line for this one.

I'm sure Deacon will be following not too far behind, and I know he's going to explode on me for switching things up, but it can't be helped.

Thankfully, as I round the corner, I don't see anyone waiting outside the large white door.

As I turn the knob, I enter the bathroom and let out a sigh of relief.

The music from the ballroom is now much lower, and I rub my suddenly aching temples with my fingers, trying to soothe away the pain that's starting to form there.

Stepping up to the mirror, I open my small clutch and take out some blotting powder and apply it.

I've gotten my lipstick nearly to my mouth when I hear it.

The hand in front of me begins to shake involuntarily.

The music is barely discernible here, but I would recognize that song from a mile away.

Bach .

Could it just be a coincidence? I don't think so.

Immediately dropping the tube of lipstick in the sink, I bolt for the bathroom door.

I've just gotten it open when a noise behind me has my head whipping around.

A masked figure, dressed all in black, is suddenly right behind me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should try to scream, but I can't.

Jerking me forward, he quickly covers my nose and mouth with a rag.

My arms and legs flail uselessly as the man picks me up off the floor, dragging me back into the bathroom.

Once inside, I know it's only a matter of seconds before I black out.

I can smell the chloroform and already see the dimming at the edges of my vision.

With my last few functioning brain cells, I go limp, causing the man to have to hold up my dead weight.

You wouldn't think that would be surprising, but this is the one time I'm thankful for my size because, as all rigidity leaves my body, the man is left grappling for purchase.

Because he's not prepared for the move, the hand holding the rag over my face falls away as the assailant tries to use both arms to lift me.

Taking advantage of the distraction, I lift my right foot, slamming the pointed heel of my stiletto down onto the man's toes.

At the same time, I spin my upper body to the right, throwing my elbow out blindly.

I must hit my target because my elbow connects with flesh and a muffled bellow of pain follows a cringeworthy crunching sound.

The man releases me altogether to grab at the area of the mask where his nose must be located.

I throw my body weight forward and grab for the door handle, flinging the door wide and running as fast as my heels will carry me.

As I bolt down the hall, my shoes skid, clicking loudly against the marble flooring.

Soon, I burst into the entryway, party guests look up from their champagne with a mixture of confusion and nosiness.

I try my best to skirt around anyone in my way but push several people aside in my haste to reach the ballroom.

It's only there that I risk a glance behind me.

Breath heavy, I scan the sea of faces for a masked kidnapper, even knowing how foolish it would be for him to chase me out into a room full of people.

So instead, I quickly look around the room, eyes flicking from one face to another, looking for anyone that shows signs of a broken nose, black eye, or any other similar injury.

When the only faces looking back at me are those I've seen all my life at one party or another, I turn back to the ballroom to search for Deacon.

I weave through the crowd surrounding the dance floor but don't see him.

Maybe he got lost somewhere between the first and second bathrooms.

Even as wary as I am of venturing down another hallway on my own, I'm fully prepared to do that if it leads me into Deacon's arms.

However, when I enter the first hallway again, the only thing I see is the line of ladies waiting for the restroom.

They stand casually chatting or looking impatient, dancing from foot to foot as they await their turn, utterly oblivious to the danger lurking in this house.

While the hall is clogged with people, nowhere do I glimpse a tall figure with sandy blonde hair pulled back in a tie.

Where is he?? My heart is pounding, and I'm bordering on hysteria now.

I turn back to the ballroom blindly, skirting the edge of the crowd again.

I don't want to leave the safety of being around the throngs of people but I need to find Deacon and tell him what just happened.

Dante may still be somewhere in the house, and if so, we need to find him.

Just as I round a particularly large group of women gossiping with each other, a hand reaches out from a shadowy alcove just off the main ballroom.

My fight or flight instincts immediately kick in, and I lean my head down, biting the top of the hand now gripping my wrist.

There's a grunt from whoever it is, but the hand doesn't release me.

Just as I'm about to start screaming, the details of the hand register, and it's then that I realize that I recognize those tattoos.

I instantly stop fighting and allow myself to be pulled into the shadows of the alcove, where I come face-to-face with Alexi.

His features are set in granite, and for a moment, I experience a flash of fear, but as soon as he takes in my disheveled appearance, his face softens to one of concern.

"Siren, what happened? Are you okay?"

he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, conscious of the many ears surrounding us.

I'm shaking my head furiously before he's even finished his question.

"No, not really.

Someone just tried to grab me from the bathroom.

I need to find Deacon."

My voice is laced with panic, and I make a move to pull away in favor of continuing my search.

Unfortunately, Alexi's death grip on my wrist prevents me from barreling back into the crowd.

"Wait,"

he says, and the next thing I know, he's pulling me behind him, back the way I just came.

His broad shoulders carve a path through the gawking women still loitering in the hallway to the bathroom.

Some openly drooling or giggling behind their gloved hands while most simply stare in shock.

I have to admit that the FBI agent doesn't fit in here.

He emanates an air of danger, mystery, and raw power.

We quickly bypass the line and subsequent bathroom door before Alexi opens another set of French doors further down the hall, that I know lead to a private sitting room.

Shutting us both inside the dimly lit room, he faces me.

"Tell me everything,"

he commands, and it's on the tip of my tongue to argue, but the look in his eyes tells me that now isn't the time.

Speaking of time, we're running out of it.

"Deacon and I decided we'd have a better chance of Dante showing himself if he thought I was alone.

So I left the dance floor to pretend to go to the bathroom.

As you can see,"

I gesture towards the closed doors and the gaggle of women that can still be heard from the hallway, "it was too crowded.

I knew there was another bathroom on the other side of the foyer, so I followed this hallway around to that ballroom.

Deacon was only feet behind me, so I assumed he'd just follow me to the second bathroom.

When I got inside, it was empty, or so I thought."

He doesn't crowd me, but the aggression suddenly pulsing off of him in waves is nearly visible to the naked eye.

He nods before saying, "I heard the orchestra start the song and knew something was wrong."

My nervous hands start to tunnel into my hair when I remember that it's pinned up.

Dropping my hands to my sides, I say, "I heard it through the bathroom door and tried to get out.

That's when someone grabbed me.

He put a rag over my face.

It must've been covered with chloroform because I could feel myself getting ready to pass out.

The only thing I could think of was to drop to the floor.

He tried to catch me, dropped the rag, and I stabbed him in the foot with my heel before elbowing him in the face.

I heard a crack, so I'm pretty sure I broke the bastard's nose.

It gave me enough time to make it out of the bathroom, and from there I just ran.

I knew if I could get back into the ballroom, I'd be marginally safe with all the other people around.

I expected Deacon to be there, but he's not."

"I saw you go down the hall.

Deacon followed behind you.

I never saw him return to the ballroom; he's clearly not down here. Pizdec! "

he swears.

I'm not sure what the word means, but I don't have to speak Russian to hazard a guess.

Looking confused, I ask, "Deacon wasn't outside the other bathroom when I got out.

Where could he have gone?"

Fear grips me and I feel like a toy dangling from the vice of a claw machine, unsure if I'll be dropped at any second.

Unfortunately, I don't think there will be a soft cushion of stuffed animals for me to land on; rather, the hard reality that Deacon is either alone somewhere in this house with a psychotic kidnapper or, worse, missing.

Alexi watches me closely.

Reaching up, he grips my upper arms, halting my downward spiral and forcing my gaze back to his face.

His grip is firm but gentle.

"We'll find him, don't worry.

I had cameras set up around the house.

If he went somewhere, we'll know.

But first, we need to call Merrick and Amelia.

Let them know what's going on."

What is it with these men and their cameras? I don't waste time berating him, though.

Instead, I say, "Are you gonna call, or should I? I'll have to borrow your phone if you want me to call.

I think I dropped my clutch somewhere, and my phone was inside."

"I'll call. Hold on,"

he says.

Taking his phone from his pocket, he dials a number.

Suddenly, I hear Merrick's voice faintly on the other end.

I stand, feeling completely useless, while he quickly explains what's transpired.

He then tells Merrick that his car is in the alley next to my parent's home and we'll be leaving soon.

I open my mouth to tell him that I don't want to leave without Deacon but he holds a finger up to me as he brings the phone down, ends the call and immediately places another.

He speaks in rapid-fire Russian, none of which I can understand, as he paces back and forth in front of me.

While he speaks, I focus on breathing, trying desperately not to hyperventilate.

What if Deacon isn't here? What if something bad has happened to him? What if I never get to see the reaction on his stupidly good-looking face when I tell him I'm in love with him? All these questions and more swim through my brain until I'm one giant ball of nervous energy.

Finally hanging up with whoever he was talking to, he turns back to me.

The look on his face has my pulse stutter stepping.

Fuck.

It's bad.

Oh my God.

I bend at the waist, trying to get air into my lungs.

Hand pressed to my stomach, I have to fight the urge not to be sick while simultaneously trying not to pass out.

A strong hand soon rests on my back, and on instinct, I flinch away.

Turning to face Alexi, I ask in a barely-there whisper, "He's not here, is he? "

He shakes his head slowly before speaking.

His tone is emotionless but there's an underlying thread of worry that even I can make out.

"The cameras caught him following you down the hallway, but he went back towards the kitchen instead of across the foyer to the other bathroom.

He must've gotten turned around.

About the same time you came running out, he entered a room just off the kitchen.

Possibly a pantry or linen closet, I'm not sure.

A few minutes later, someone came out pushing a serving cart.

It wasn't Deacon, and they didn't go to the kitchen or the dining room.

They pushed the cart past the kitchen and out the back door, where a car was waiting.

They moved something from beneath the linen cloth of the cart into the trunk.

Something big."

He says the last few sentences as though he's telling me there's rain in the forecast for tomorrow.

How is he so calm? Oh, right, it's not his world that's falling apart right now.

It's mine.

As I sink down slowly into a nearby chair, my sightless gaze roves over the room, from the shiny material of Alexi's shoes to the window that overlooks the gardens outside.

As I stare out the window at the night sky, stars wink in the distance, and a feeling of calm settles over me.

That calm is quickly eaten away by rage which is a much healthier emotion than fear, in my opinion.

Popping up from my chair, I say, "Fuck this shit!"

Alexi stares at me with an arched brow before a small grin tips up one corner of his mouth.

"So, what do you wanna do, pevchaya ptitsa ?" he asks.

Fed up, I take a deep breath.

There's no fucking way, after everything I've gone through, that I'm not going to get my happily ever after.

If Deacon is the stars, I'll move Heaven and Earth to reach them if I have to.

I refuse to live in the dark any longer .

Alexi's typically deadpan stare meets mine, and I can see the resignation.

He already knows what I wanna do, and not only is he gonna let me do it, clearly, he's gonna help me.

My spine straightens as I rip my mask off completely.

"Let's finish this," I say.