Page 26

The September night wrapped around us like silk as we approached Roche's mansion, late summer heat lingering in the air, thick with jasmine from the manicured gardens. My heart thundered with familiar pre-mission energy, making everything sharper, brighter, more real. The ceramic blade concealed in my hairpin pressed against my scalp like a lover's touch, while the garrote wire disguised as a delicate chain around my throat felt more like a collar. Ash's marks still throbbed beneath my designer silk, each bruise a reminder of who I really belonged to.

The mansion itself was pure Belle époque excess, all ornate stonework and gilded fixtures caught in the glow of strategic lighting. Tall windows glowed amber against the darkening sky, while perfectly pruned topiaries cast shadows like silent sentinels across the gravel drive. A stream of luxury cars purred at idle near the entrance, their drivers maintaining careful discretion as masked figures in couture emerged.

"Ready?" Ash murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on my lower back. The Tom Ford tuxedo he wore made him look exactly like the wealthy crime novelist he pretended to be, while making even Xavier's most thorough pat-down this morning show nothing suspicious.

"Born ready. Just remember your lines, darling."

His answering laugh held genuine warmth, the kind of intimate sound that sold our cover perfectly. "As if I could forget with you looking like that."

The first checkpoint loomed ahead, staffed by men whose military bearing showed clearly despite their designer suits. I let my hips sway as we approached, noting how their eyes tracked my movement. The more they focused on the obvious distractions, the less they noticed what really mattered.

"Invitation?" The head guard's voice was pure special forces beneath his practiced courtesy.

Ash produced the black card with elegant precision. "Mr. and Mx. Verity," he said smoothly, his accent perfect as he continued the conversation in French. I had no idea what he was saying, but every time Ash spoke French, I wanted to drag him to the nearest bed and suck his brains out through his dick.

The guard's smile never reached his eyes as he examined our invitation before handing it back and saying something in French to Ash.

“Ah, my spouse’s French is not so good,” Ash said. “English, s'il vous pla?t?”

His gaze lingered on where Ash's hand branded my hip. "But of course. All electronic devices must be surrendered. Phones, watches, anything capable of recording."

We handed over our phones without protest, watching them disappear into numbered lockboxes. The metal detector's arch hummed with quiet menace, but Xavier's modifications to my outfit worked perfectly. Each ceramic blade read as normal structural elements, every weapon disguised as fashion.

The pat-down was exactly as expected: clinical, professional, focused entirely on finding recording devices rather than the kind of weapons we carried. I caught Ash's tension as another guard ran practiced hands over his jacket, but our careful preparation paid off. Not a single piece of our carefully concealed arsenal pinged their security.

"This way, please." Our escort appeared as if summoned. She was a tall woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She flashed an artificially white smile and gestured for us to follow her, her heels clicking precisely against marble as she guided us deeper into Roche's sanctuary. The foyer alone was breathtaking. Soaring ceilings dripped crystal while Renaissance masters gazed down from gilt frames.

"Quite the collection," Ash observed as we passed through a gallery where Da Vinci sketches casually mingled with Klimt's more erotic works. The discrete cameras tracking our movement were state-of-the art, their positioning exactly matching Xavier's intel.

"Mx. Roche believes beauty deserves preservation," our escort replied smoothly. Her smile was practiced perfection as she led us toward another security checkpoint. "Though their private collection is considerably more... intimate."

The music changed as we moved deeper into the mansion, classical strings giving way to something darker, more primal. Bass thrummed through the floors like a heartbeat while violin strings screamed in counterpoint. The artwork grew more explicit with each room we passed, with Renaissance nudes giving way to modern photography that left nothing to imagination.

The second security checkpoint waited at the top of a sweeping staircase. Their pat-down was more thorough than the first, but still focused primarily on finding recording devices. One guard's hands lingered slightly as he checked my legs, but Ash's possessive grip on my shoulder reminded him whose property he was touching.

"You're going to enjoy this," I murmured to Ash as we descended another curving staircase. The sounds from below grew louder, the music mixing with other, more intimate noises. "Roche's parties are legendary in certain circles."

His fingers tightened on my hip. "Just remember who you belong to," he growled, loud enough for anyone watching to hear. The possessiveness in his voice wasn't entirely feigned.

I turned in his arms, pressing close enough to feel his heart racing beneath designer silk. "Always, Daddy," I purred, letting real heat color my voice. Then I bit his lower lip sharply, a reminder that I could take care of myself. "Now let's go make some new friends."

The grand salon opened before us like a scene from a decadent Renaissance painting come to life. Soaring ceilings dripped crystal while priceless art covered every wall, but it was the living tableau that commanded attention. My breath caught at the sheer audacity of it, at the careful arrangement of beauty and power that spoke of Roche's particular aesthetic.

Beautiful people in various states of undress lounged on antique furniture worth more than most houses, their designer clothes discarded like petals around them. To my left, a tech billionaire famous for his AI breakthroughs reclined on a Victorian fainting couch while two models who'd graced the covers of Vogue competed to see who could draw the prettiest sounds from him. Their Bulgari jewelry caught the light as they moved, diamonds winking like stars against bare skin.

Across the room, the French Minister of Culture had her hand buried in the hair of a famous actress, directing her with the same authority she probably used running cabinet meetings. The actress's wife watched from a nearby chaise, idly stroking the thigh of an Olympic swimmer everyone would recognize from cologne ads. The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and sex.

"Quite the gathering," Ash murmured against my ear, his hand possessive on my hip. The gesture wasn't entirely for show. I could feel the tension thrumming through him as he took in the scene. His fingers pressed into my skin just hard enough to remind me who I really belonged to.

"Just wait," I breathed back, letting real heat color my voice. "The night's barely started."

As if on cue, movement by the far door drew attention. A couple I recognized from a popular YouTube channel entered with a beautiful man who'd clearly been chosen as much for his face as his ability to sculpt abs. They moved with practiced grace toward one of the larger couches, already reaching for each other's clothes with elegant precision.

But beneath the veneer of hedonistic pleasure, darker currents flowed. I recognized the predatory focus in certain eyes, the way some guests looked at the beautiful young things like they were shopping for more permanent acquisitions. A tech mogul's smile held too many teeth as he watched the action by the fountain, while a fashion editor's perfectly manicured hands clenched her crystal glass too tight as she studied the curve of a model's throat.

"Darling!" Roche's voice carried across the space with practiced authority. They approached with liquid grace, wearing what I recognized as a piece from their upcoming collection. The suit's architectural lines emphasized their lean strength while maintaining an air of androgynous mystery. A Cartier watch worth more than most cars glinted at their wrist, the only concession to obvious wealth.

Behind them, Misha followed like a living doll, custom couture making him look both powerful and vulnerable. The suit was clearly Roche's work since it was all sharp lines and strategic reveals that somehow made him look more exposed fully dressed than the naked people around us. But it was his eyes that made my stomach turn.

Whatever they'd given him had hollowed him out, leaving just enough awareness to follow commands. His movements were too precise, each gesture calculated rather than natural, like watching CGI try to replicate human grace. His feet never quite seemed to touch the ground, as though gravity itself had forgotten about him. The drugs had turned him into a beautiful automaton, every blink and breath choreographed by chemical strings.

"You look absolutely divine," Roche purred, air-kissing my cheeks. Their hands lingered possessively on my bare shoulders, fingers tracing the straps of my dress with deliberate intent. This close, their cologne wrapped around me like a physical touch, the scent something exclusive and French. "Both of you must join us. I have something very special planned for tonight's entertainment."

I let myself lean into their touch, playing my role perfectly even as my skin crawled. "You're too kind. Though I must admit, your current entertainment seems quite... stimulating already."

"Merely the appetizer," Roche murmured, their hand sliding lower on my back. Their fingers found skin through one of the strategic cutouts in my dress, touch proprietary in a way that made Ash's grip tighten. "The real feast happens in more private settings. Perhaps your spouse would enjoy getting better acquainted with some of my other guests while we discuss... artistic possibilities?"

The suggestion crackled with dangerous possibility. Around us, the party flowed like extremely expensive wine, inhibitions loosening with each passing moment. The YouTuber couple and their trainer had attracted an audience, appreciative murmurs mixing with the classical music.

"I prefer to keep what's mine close," Ash replied smoothly, though I felt the tension in his grip. "Though we're certainly willing to... appreciate the view."

A flash of something dangerous crossed Roche's face before their practiced smile returned. "Of course. Such devotion deserves reward." They gestured and Misha drifted closer, his movements graceful despite the drugs clearly flooding his system. "Perhaps we could find a way to make everyone comfortable? Misha has such talented hands. The perfect way to ease into the evening's pleasures."

Misha's vacant eyes met mine as he reached for me with careful precision. Up close, I could see the needle marks hidden beneath his couture sleeve, the slight tremor in his fingers as he traced my collarbone. His touch was feather light but somehow wrong, like he was following a script written in chemical oblivion.

"Go on," Roche encouraged, their own hand sliding up my arm to mirror Misha's touch. "Show them how skilled you are at making new friends feel welcome."

I forced myself to stay still as Misha leaned closer, his breath ghosting across my skin. This close, I could see how blown his pupils were, green eyes nearly swallowed by chemical darkness. His lips brushed my throat with practiced grace, but there was no real desire in it. Just careful obedience to unspoken commands.

I fought the urge to clench my fists, fighting the rage boiling in my veins. Roche was the worst kind of monster. The death we had planned for him would be too fast, too good for him.

"Beautiful," Roche breathed, watching us with hungry eyes. Their fingers tangled in Misha's hair, directing him with casual possession. "Though I must admit, you both have qualities that intrigue me deeply. Such perfect bone structure. Like Bernini angels given flesh." Their other hand traced my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. "I would love to preserve you both. Keep you perfect forever."

The tech billionaire and his models had migrated closer, drawn by the display we presented. I caught the calculated interest in their eyes, the way they assessed us like potential acquisitions. Around us, the party's energy shifted subtly, focus narrowing on our little drama.

A soft gasp from behind drew our attention. One of the tech billionaire's models had slipped to her knees, Balenciaga dress pooling around her like spilled ink as her hands traced up his thighs. The other watched with hooded eyes, her fingers toying with the straps of a La Perla slip.

"Perhaps we should give them some privacy," Roche suggested, though their smile said they knew exactly the kind of show they were orchestrating. Their hand slid possessively down my back as they guided us toward a more secluded alcove. "I have a special vintage I've been saving for the right... appreciation."

The alcove proved to be a small sitting room dominated by what looked like an original Titian. The erotic artwork's subject matter left little to imagination. A Saudi prince I recognized from gossip columns was thoroughly occupied between the thighs of a prima ballerina, while his wife directed the scene with elegant authority.

"Don't mind them," Roche purred, pressing a crystal glass into my hand. "They're just warming up for the evening's main entertainment."

Misha drifted after us like a ghost, his movements still liquid but wrong somehow. When Roche snapped their fingers, he sank to his knees beside their chair with practiced grace. The sight made my stomach turn even as I maintained my mask of intrigued desire.

"Such perfect obedience," Roche observed, running possessive fingers through Misha's hair. "Though I must admit, I prefer a bit more... fire in my companions. Someone who needs to be properly trained." Their eyes raked over me with undisguised hunger. "Would you like to see my private collection? I have pieces that would look absolutely divine against your skin."

"My husband might object," I demurred, though I let heat color my voice. Playing hard to get would only make me more desirable to someone like Roche. "He can be quite possessive."

"Then perhaps we should include him," Roche suggested, gesturing to where Ash stood coiled tension barely hidden beneath his designer suit. "Misha could keep him... entertained while we discuss artistic possibilities. Couldn't you, pet?"

Misha's only response was to turn that vacant stare toward Ash, lips parting slightly. The gesture should have been seductive, but there was something mechanical about it that made my skin crawl.

"I prefer to watch," Ash replied smoothly, though I caught the rage simmering beneath his controlled tone. His hand found my hip, grip possessive enough to make Roche's eyes narrow. "Especially when it comes to appreciating true beauty."

A commotion from the main salon drew attention, appreciative murmurs mixing with gasps of surprise. The Saudi prince's wife paused in her direction of the scene on the chaise, head turning toward the sound with professional interest.

"More guests arriving," Roche said, though something in their tone felt off. They snapped their fingers and Misha rose with fluid grace, moving to pour more champagne. "Though I must admit, I'm growing tired of such a public venue. Perhaps we should move somewhere more... intimate?"

Their hand found my thigh, sliding higher with proprietary confidence. "I have a private showing prepared. Something specially curated for someone of your... unique qualities." Their fingers traced patterns on my skin, touch possessive but somehow wrong. Clinical. Like they were already imagining me preserved in their collection.

The guards positioned around the room had shifted subtly, their casual poses becoming more focused. The carefully choreographed patterns Xavier had mapped were changing, becoming unpredictable. Something about the new arrivals had triggered heightened security protocols.

"Someone’s eager," I breathed, letting Roche believe their touch affected me. Leaning into their hand even as I caught Ash's minute tension from across the room. "Though surely there's no need to rush? The night is still young."

"Oh, I disagree," Roche murmured, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise. "Some beauty demands immediate preservation. Before it can be...tarnished."

The servant's entrance burst open with enough force to crack marble. Viktor Vasiliev erupted into the room, blood seeping through his Armani suit where he'd clearly fought past exterior security. Three unconscious guards lay visible through the doorway behind him. Even in disarray, the legendary Vasiliev command presence radiated from him, halting conversations mid-sentence. The room's atmosphere crystallized with deadly potential as every hidden security team member shifted toward this new threat, their movements betraying military training beneath borrowed servant's clothes.

His eyes locked onto Misha with predatory focus, decades of repressed paternal instinct transforming into pure intent. The gun appeared in his hand with fluid grace, leveled at Roche with unwavering precision.

"Step away from my son." His voice carried the same authority that had built empires and toppled governments. No begging, no hesitation.

Roche's smile was pure ice as they turned, fingers tightening possessively in Misha's hair. "Your son? I thought you'd made your feelings quite clear on that matter. What was it you said? That you had no son?" Their grip twisted, making Misha whimper. "Only a daughter who died betraying your precious traditions?"

"The only one dying tonight will be you if you don't release him." Each word dropped like a bullet casing. "Now."

Something flickered in Misha's drugged gaze, a flash of recognition cutting through the chemical haze. His lips parted, but whatever he might have said was lost as Roche jerked him closer, using him as a shield.

"Misha..." Viktor's voice held steel, not supplication. "I'm taking you home." He shifted his aim, seeking a clear shot around his child. "And you," his focus burned into Roche, "you'll answer for what you've done."

The crack of gunfire was deafening in the enclosed space.

Viktor's expression held more surprise than pain as he looked down at the red blooming across his chest. The guard who'd shot him from behind maintained perfect form, the kind of execution you only got from special forces training. But it was the look in Viktor's eyes that would haunt me. Not fear or anger, but a bone-deep regret as he reached for his child one final time.

"Prosti menya," he breathed as his legs gave out. Forgive me.

He collapsed forward, momentum carrying him into Misha's arms. They went down together in a tangle of couture and crimson, father's blood soaking into son's custom suit like some twisted baptism. The pristine white of Misha's jacket turned ruby, then burgundy, the stains spreading like dark roses blooming across silk. His face remained perfect, porcelain skin and emerald eyes unmarred even as arterial spray painted macabre patterns across his throat. The contrast was obscene. Beauty and death tangled together while crystal chandeliers threw rainbows across the carnage.

"Papa?" The word was small, broken. Like the child he'd been before tradition and prejudice tore them apart. Misha's trembling fingers left crimson prints on Viktor's face as he tried to wake what was already gone. Each touch added to the grotesque artwork of their final embrace.

"How inconvenient," Roche said softly." They gestured sharply and more guards materialized, surrounding us with practiced efficiency.

The gunshot became a signal. The main entrance erupted with chaos as paparazzi flooded in, their camera flashes strobing like artillery fire. Viktor hadn't just fought his way in, he'd orchestrated a breach on both fronts. The reporters who'd been stalking Roche's parties for months had finally gotten their chance, courtesy of anonymous tips and disabled security systems. Each photographer proved as ruthless as any mercenary, shoving past overwhelmed guards to capture Paris's elite in various states of debauchery.

"Get them out!" Roche's voice cracked with real fear as their security team's attention split between the bleeding man on their floor and the media invasion. "Secure all exits! No photos!"

It was a brilliant distraction play, I had to admit. Viktor might have failed to extract his son, but he'd succeeded in something possibly more damaging, destroying the secrecy Roche's operation depended on. Every flash of those cameras stripped away another layer of Roche's carefully maintained facade.

The salon erupted into chaos. Half-dressed socialites scrambled for cover while guards tried to contain the press. In the confusion, Roche's security whisked them toward some hidden exit. I caught a glimpse of Misha being dragged away as well, his blood-soaked couture leaving crimson trails across marble floors.

Ash materialized at my side, his hand finding mine with deadly precision. "Time to go," he growled, already guiding us toward one of Xavier's mapped escape routes.

We slipped out through the kitchen as the sounds of chaos echoed behind us. Camera flashes still strobed through windows while sirens wailed in the distance. Our mission had failed spectacularly, but at least our cover remained intact. Small comfort, knowing Roche would likely accelerate their plans now. The next time we saw Misha, he might already be part of Roche's permanent collection.

"Xavier's not going to be happy," I muttered as we emerged into the cool night air. The ceramic blade in my hair felt useless now, all our careful preparation wasted.

"We'll find another way in." Ash's voice held deadly promise as he helped me into the waiting car. "Before Roche can finish whatever they're planning."

But we both knew time was running out. The race to save Misha had just become a sprint, and we were already behind.