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CHAPTER THIRTY

AURELIA

T he mask hugs my face like a second skin, the edges digging slightly into my temples.

The outfit Adrian chose for me—a deep burgundy gown that catches the light like spilled wine—flows around my legs as we enter the crowded ballroom.

I feel his hand at the small of my back, steady and warm, grounding me in this sea of nameless, faceless predators.

We’re two bloodthirsty, banished wolves walking among their complacent wolf pack, but they don’t know it yet.

And how ironic this is? I’m returning voluntarily to the world that nearly destroyed me. But tonight is different. Tonight, I’m no one’s prisoner and no one’s plaything. Tonight, I’m the hunter.

And I’m not alone.

“Are you ready?” Adrian asks, his voice low in my ear.

His breath stirs the strands of the platinum blonde wig I’m wearing.

Even Eleanora wouldn’t recognize me with this color—a jarring shift from my natural red.

The makeup artist Adrian hired worked miracles, altering the shape of my cheekbones and nose—his too—with small prosthetics.

Combined with the intricately decorated masks we’re both wearing, we’re unrecognizable, slipping into this party under aliases.

My gaze sweeps the room. “Yes. Let’s find our target.”

I still can’t believe he didn’t flinch when I told him everything.

Three nights ago, after he’d shaved my legs with such tenderness, something broke open.

Sitting wrapped in a towel on the edge of the bathtub, I confessed everything—DeMarco’s poisoning, Whitman’s execution in that restaurant bathroom, Victoria’s fiery end.

I shared the ugly, brutal details of each death, waiting for his judgment and for him to tell me how difficult I made his life back when Lucian was still alive.

I also rambled on about all the names still on my list.

Adrian had simply listened, his face unreadable as I described my bloody path of vengeance. When I finally ran out of words, he was silent for several long moments.

“You did all that by yourself?” he asked finally, his voice oddly calm.

I nodded.

“Impressive.” A small smile curved his lips. “Truly impressive, Aurelia. Your methods show remarkable ingenuity and precision.”

I felt my cheeks flush, warmth spreading beneath my skin. Had he just… complimented my killing techniques?

“My father had us searching the wrong leads it seems,” he added, a hint of admiration in his tone. “We never even considered you.”

The contrast with Julian’s reaction couldn’t have been more stark. When Julian discovered my revenge plans, his offer to help always came with strings attached—with control, with conditions.

I’ll help you, but not yet.

I’ll help you, but you have to wait.

I’ll help you, but only if you bend to my will.

Adrian’s offer was simple: “There’s a Consortium party this weekend. We could go together. Francis, the other DeMarco still on your list, will be the easiest kill.”

Just like that. No power play, no attempt to assert dominance. Just a genuine desire to help me achieve what I want.

Now I feel his fingers interlace with mine, the firm pressure of his hand pulling me back to the present moment. We move deeper into the party, into the swirling vortex of Seattle’s most dangerous elites.

Together.

The mansion belongs to someone whose name I don’t know. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, adding a glow to everyone’s masks. And I can smell expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and somewhere beneath it all, the unmistakable tang of sex.

A woman passes by, her breasts completely exposed above an elaborate corset. A leash connects her throat to the hand of the masked man beside her. He tugs it, and she follows obediently, her vacant eyes staring straight ahead. No one else seems to notice or care.

“Remember to breathe,” Adrian murmurs, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist where my pulse thunders.

“I’m fine,” I say, though the edges of my vision blur slightly.

“We can leave anytime.”

“No.” I square my shoulders. “Francis first. Then we leave.”

Adrian nods. “We should mingle separately. Less conspicuous that way. I’ll work the east side of the room, you take the west. We’ll meet back here in twenty minutes to compare notes.”

Anxiety squeezes my stomach at the thought of navigating this crowd alone, but I also feel powerful. I’m no longer the Consortium’s victim. I’m here for retribution.

“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Don’t be late.”

His lips curve into a smile that transforms his face. Even with the partial mask and the subtle changes to his appearance, that smile is completely Adrian.

“I’m never late,” he reminds me, then slips away into the crowd like a shadow dissolving into darkness.

I watch him go, then turn in the opposite direction, mentally rehearsing the details Adrian and I have memorized about our target.

Francis DeMarco. Forty-three years old. Took over the family’s drug distribution network after his cousin Vincent’s “untimely” death. He likes bourbon, struggles with gambling debts and drug addiction, and according to Adrian, has a fondness for blondes.

Lucky me.

I’d initially wanted to go after Gregory Whitman next—the man who organized “games” where my mother was the prize, letting men take turns with her when they won.

He was also the one who was overly eager to have me when Lady Harrow brought all her friends to burn me with a cigar.

He’s a bastard and a pig and I want him dead.

Adrian said he wouldn’t stop me—which I appreciated—but he gave a good reason to wait on Whitman.

Lorenzo has seen Gregory hanging around Julian a lot, making him a risky first target.

If I take out Whitman, Julian will get suspicious.

So, Adrian said to start with DeMarco because he’s less connected to Julian and less likely to draw immediate attention.

Also, his drug addiction will make his death seem like something inevitable.

As always, Adrian’s logic was impossible to argue against. And, compared to Julian who loves to keep secrets, I appreciated that Adrian told me why I shouldn’t kill Whitman yet. He trusted me with the truth instead of demanding things and expecting me to just obey.

I drift through the crowd, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing server.

I won’t drink it—I need to have a clear head—but it gives me something to do with my hands.

And the weight of the emerald necklace against my throat reminds me of Adrian’s presence, of the purpose we share tonight. I’m not alone. Not anymore.

It makes my heart dance.

The room opens into a series of connected spaces, each more depraved than the last. In one area, naked bodies mash together on plush couches. In another, lines of white powder are arranged on black marble tables, guests bending down to inhale.

I scan faces, listening to snippets of conversation, hunting for information about Francis, but come up empty.

Twenty minutes pass too quickly. I return to our meeting spot, scanning the crowd for Adrian. He appears at my side a moment later, right on time, as promised.

“Any news?” he asks, guiding me toward a quieter corner with a light touch at my elbow.

I shake my head. “You?”

“Yes. It seems Francis will arrive soon, supposedly with a new product that’s stronger than fentanyl.

” Adrian’s expression darkens beneath his mask.

“Carfentanil, most likely. It’s been showing up on the east coast. A hundred times more potent than fentanyl.

A few grains can kill. Francis also lost heavily at Whitman’s casino last night.

He’s desperate for cash, which explains the new product push.

” Adrian’s voice drops lower. “And he’s been complaining about Julian not leading things to his satisfaction. ”

Julian. The name sends a shiver through me, a mixture of rage and pity.

“Is he?—”

“Not here,” Adrian assures me quickly. “He won’t be. He’s too busy playing leader at the moment.”

Relief washes through me, followed immediately by a spike of determination. I need to focus. I’m not here to dwell on Julian. I’m here for Francis. For my mother. For everything he watched them do to her while he laughed.

A commotion near the entrance draws our attention. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as a newcomer strides in, flanked by two hulking bodyguards. Even without the intel, I’d know this was Francis—he carries himself with the arrogance of a predator who’s never had to fear becoming prey.

Until now.

“That’s him,” Adrian confirms, his eyes tracking Francis’s movements. “That silver briefcase likely has the samples.” Adrian offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, steel settling into my spine. We move through the crowd with purpose, working our way closer to where Francis is now sitting on a velvet couch.

“… medical grade, pure as they come,” Francis is saying to the small crowd. “One dose and you’ll feel like God himself is massaging your brain.”

I roll my eyes.

Adrian leans down as if whispering sweet nothings in my ear. “I brought a solution for our friend,” he says, his breath warm against my skin. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, despite the situation.

“Ketamine mixed with morphine and a touch of potassium chloride,” he continues. “Shouldn’t be traceable in standard tox screens. Given his history with substance abuse and recent rehab stints, an overdose won’t raise eyebrows.”

My lips part and my pulse races, but it has nothing to do with fear.

Why is plotting death with Adrian so damn sexy?

Our bodies are close enough that I can feel the steady rhythm of Adrian’s breathing against my neck, and I’m tempted to take him to one of the side areas where we could play and have fun.

I’ve missed him.

But we have a mission .

“How do we get it to him?” I ask.

Adrian’s smile is devilish. “We don’t. We let him come to us. He loves going after other men’s women.”

My heart flutters. Is he saying I’m his?