Page 17 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter Nine

“I thought you said the relationship with my father was completely platonic,” Malachi says as he waltzes into my room without so much as a knock.

I really need to start locking my door. I’m not used to people barging in. At least Marco’s men have the decency to knock when they’re sent to retrieve me.

“It is. Why would you say that?” I sit up in bed and flick on the lamp beside me, squinting against the sudden light. I’d just gotten under the covers and turned everything off, ready to sleep. Now, I’m regretting not securing the door.

“You were gone all evening,” he says, picking up a trinket from the bookshelf and examining it like he’s studying some ancient artifact. “And I watched my father walk you back to your room. In that ridiculous outfit. Late at night.”

I was wearing a dress and sweater, after Marco said I had to put on something nice. Hardly what I’d call ridiculous.

“I’m really not in the mood for any fuss tonight, Malachi. As fun as it is to go back and forth with you, it’s been a long fucking day.” I pull the covers up to my chin and flop my head back onto the pillow.

“What happened after you left? What did Viktor want? And where did you disappear to with my dad?” he asks as he sprawls out on the bed next to me, acting like he owns the place.

I turn my head toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

He grins, unbothered. “Very.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Viktor wanted to remind me that I’m nothing more than a tool to him and to make sure I’ll behave at his little party tomorrow. As for your dad? I had a front-row seat to why your family is so fucked up. Happy now?”

His grin falters slightly, and he tilts his head. “What do you mean? What happened?”

I glare at him, my exhaustion tipping over into irritation. “You really want to have this conversation now? Because I promise it’s not going to make me any fonder of your charming family.”

“Try me,” he says, letting his guard down. “You have my attention.”

I roll my eyes but quickly tell him about everything that happened with his father and Boris.

“You think that’s bad?” Malachi says, leaning back with his arms behind his head, crossing his legs as if we’re discussing the weather. “This is happening all across the country, and you’re in a position to make a real difference—with my help, of course.”

His casual demeanor grates on me, so nonchalant about people’s lives. “How can you act like it’s not a big deal?”

He turns his head to face me, his smirk unfaltering. “Hours ago, you didn’t want any part in this. You were happy to keep living the dream as a pet.”

The word “pet” ignites something in me. I punch him in the arm, the motion quick and instinctive, driven by frustration.

“Fuck you,” I mutter.

He rubs his shoulder, wincing slightly but still smirking. “For someone so tiny, with zero training, that actually hurt.”

I roll my eyes, fighting the urge to hit him again.

Little does he know, I’ve actually had some training.

When you spend most of your days stuck at Marco’s compound, you learn to occupy your time somehow.

For me, that meant taking advantage of his extensive gym—and I mean extensive.

Most of the security team uses it, and every now and then they show me a few moves—especially the ones who didn’t see me as a threat.

Banks even taught me a thing or two over the years.

I might look scrawny, but I can hold my own in a fight.

“Maybe you should take me more seriously.”

His grin widens. “Oh, I do. Believe me.”

“Get out.” I shove him, and he raises his hands in mock surrender, sliding off the bed with exaggerated care like I might lunge at him again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night at the dinner party,” he says, heading toward the door. “And no one will know who you really are, so try to eavesdrop. The men will think nothing of a pretty girl hanging around.”

If he were any closer, I’d hit him again. Harder.

“Are you trying to tell me how to act around men? I know what I’m doing. Stay out of my way,” I say, flipping over and reaching up to turn off the lamp.

“Sweet dreams, Katja,” he laughs as the door clicks shut behind him.

I half expected Malachi to show up today and deliver another infuriating lecture about the party tonight. But to my surprise, I haven’t caught a glimpse of him all day.

Maybe he’s finally learned to give me some space.

Anton stopped by earlier, gruff as always, to remind me to be ready by 7 p.m. That’s it. No explanation, no details about the party.

Fortunately, I’ve learned over the years to pack for any occasion. I pull out the perfect dress, the one I’d tucked away for emergencies like this—when blending in is as important as standing out.

Sitting at the small vanity in my room, I do my makeup with precision, sweeping dark, smoky shadows across my lids and painting my lips in a deep crimson that matches the dress perfectly.

My hair falls naturally into soft, dark waves, brushing against my shoulders with the right amount of effortless elegance.

Once I’m satisfied with the look, I slip on the dress, carefully smoothing the fabric over my body. The moment I stand in front of the full-length mirror, I pause. The dress feels like a second skin, every inch designed to hug my curves and make me feel exposed yet powerful at the same time.

The deep, daring red is bold—a challenge wrapped in silk.

It’s the kind of color that dares someone to underestimate me while knowing they’ll regret it if they do.

The single shoulder strap leaves one arm bare, framing my collarbone and neckline in a way that draws attention without screaming for it.

Sleek. Simple. And yet there’s nothing remotely modest about it.

I tilt my head, taking in the reflection staring back at me. I hardly recognize her—the woman in the mirror. Bold. Untouchable. Maybe even dangerous. She’s not me, but she’s the perfect mask for tonight.

The mask I’ll need.

At 7:15, there’s a knock at my door. Clearly, Anton is not one for punctuality. I slip on my heels, take a steadying breath, and pull the door open.

“Oh, my pretty little menace,” Orin says, his voice dripping with mockery as he strides in, uninvited, wearing a midnight-blue suit that somehow makes him look more sinister than polished. “Looking all fiery for me tonight.”

I want to hit back with something sharp and sarcastic, but I bite my tongue, forcing a tight-lipped smile instead.

Orin is a walking hurricane of brute strength and sadistic tendencies, but intelligence?

Not exactly his forte. He’s been working for his father for years though, which means he probably knows everything about the business—the inner workings, the deals, and, more importantly, the secrets.

Maybe tonight is my chance, an opportunity to use him. Orin has always made it clear he wants me, but I know he’d never cross that line without an invitation. He’s too afraid of the repercussions Marco would rain down on him.

The thought of touching him makes me sick to my stomach, and I’m not very experienced in the art of seduction. But I can be fucking charming when I want to be. And with Orin, it doesn’t matter what comes out of my mouth—he’ll be more focused on my cleavage than anything else.

Seeing how far I can play him tonight might be worth it.

I lean against the doorframe enough to give him something to look at without being obvious. “I hear you’re my date for this evening.”

His grin widens, his gaze predictably dipping to my neckline. “I’m here to make sure you don’t step out of line at the party. Lucky you, right?”

I flash him a small, calculated smile, already deciding how far I’m willing to push this. “Lucky me,” I echo sweetly enough to keep him hooked.

He extends an elbow to me, and I take his arm, letting him escort me through the sprawling mansion to the other side.

The party is an event unto itself, occupying an entire wing.

Guests move fluidly between a grand formal dining room, a library that takes my breath away, a polished bar, and a sitting room filled with men smoking cigars and swirling brandy in oversized glasses.

Orin leads me straight to the bar, but not before I catch several sets of eyes lingering on me as we pass. The dress is doing what I need it to—distracting.

Perfect.

I don’t know what I expected when I imagined Viktor’s party, but this wasn’t it.

It’s much larger than I anticipated, at least fifty people milling about—maybe closer to one hundred.

And the men outnumber the women significantly.

I spot a few couples and small groups of women chatting quietly in corners, but the party feels overwhelmingly male, dominated by heavy laughter, low murmurs, and the clinking of glasses.

And in typical Volkov style, food and alcohol overflow in abundance.

Most people can only dream of a proper meal—real meat, fresh vegetables—luxuries replaced by the genetically engineered trash they toil endlessly to afford.

But here, among these people, it’s nothing more than careless excess, squandered without a second thought.

No surprises there, I guess.

The bar is stunning—crafted from dark mahogany with an antique finish that gleams under the low light.

But it’s the library that catches my eye, its floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with gorgeously bound books.

I’d kill to have a collection like that back at Marco’s.

If I had a different life, I’d spend hours there, pulling volumes from the shelves and burying myself in the stories of worlds far away from this one.

But before I can linger, Orin keeps us moving, his attention already fixed on the drinks. He’s nothing if not predictable.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks Orin, his voice polite but neutral. He’s a young man, slender, with dark hair neatly combed back.

“Whiskey neat,” Orin says then glances at me. “And make something fruity for the lady.”