Page 146 of Lethal Torture

But not a fucking second longer than that.

Whatever plans Zin has to eject me from her life without so much as a conversation can go to hell. I’ll finish the job I was hired to do.

And then the lovely Miss Melikov and I are going to talk. Whether she wants to or not.

So I remain still and silent as she stares at the brief on the screen in front of us, my expression just as bland as hers.

I hate every minute of it.

When Zin finally speaks, she does it without looking at me. “I’m not putting Shelby up on the stage tonight. It’s too big a risk.”

Fuck.Sick tension clenches my chest.I was afraid of this.

“Shelby will be in full masquerade,” I answer as calmly as I can. “The stage is a good distance from where Lowbridge and Stewart will be sitting. Between the feathers, sequins, makeup, and masks, she’ll be virtually unrecognizable. And we will have people—the best people in the business—covering the crowd.” I nod at the troop off to my side. “There’s no chance in hell anyone will get a shot off. Shelby won’t be recognized, and we’ll keep her safe.”

Zin gives a decisive shake of her head that makes me want to kick something.

“Given how I’ve played Lowbridge over the past months,” she says, “he’ll be suspicious as hell to receive an invitation to the ball. And while Rhys Stewart will likely accept your story about Luke killing Ian Welch”—she nods at Paddy, Bryan, and the others—“he’s still going to wonder about your allegiance, and exactly how much you know. In short, both of our targets will come here tonight half convinced they’re being set up. Ifthey suspect for one moment that it isn’t me on that stage at midnight, they’ll call off the hit, and all of this will have been for nothing.”

Guests to the Winter Ball all arrive wearing masks. It’s one of the theatrical flourishes that adds mystery and makes the event so coveted. Just like the old Regency-style balls, guests unmask at midnight, when the real debauchery is scheduled to start.

Nobody has tried to hide the fact that the Winter Ball is, at its core, the most decadent, luxurious orgy of them all.

“That’s not going to work for me.” I match her decisiveness with my own. “You’re the principal here, Zinaida. You cannot be on that stage. It constitutes an unacceptable risk. There are too many variables in play.”

Zin turns to me, her eyes flashing blue fire. “Didn’t you just finish telling me that your men are the best in the business? If you’re so certain they can keep Shelby safe, why should it be any different for me?”

Because while Shelby’s death would be a tragedy, yours would fucking break me into a thousand pieces I can’t ever put back together.

The worst part is that I fucking know Zin is right. And going by the rather critical glances from my men, they know she’s right, too.

And I still can’t bring myself to agree to this.

I grasp around for a counterargument, but deep down, I’m horribly aware it isn’t just the risk to Zin’s life that is causing my hesitation.

The burlesque performance is one thing. I’ve worked at the Quartier long enough to understand the art form for what it is, and to respect the professionalism all the dancers bring to it. Zinaida’s skill onstage is part of her legend. People still whisper in awestruck tones about her performance at the first WinterBall, and although she’s never taken to the stage since that night, I’ve no doubt she remains in a class of her own.

Unfortunately, thanks to Shelby’s endless boasting, I’m horribly aware that in addition to her performance, the Winter Queen’s role is to conduct the unmasking, then kick the orgy off in person.

On stage.

With multiple partners.

Over my dead fucking body is Zin playing that particular role.

“Zinaida is correct.” In the end, it’s Anatoly who speaks up, frowning darkly at me as if he can guess at my thoughts. “Ve haf people at dis ball who haf been to Winter Ball before. Dey know vhat Shelby look like on stage, how she dance. She is good, yes. But nobody, not even Shelby, dance like Zin.”

There’s a muted chorus of agreement.

Paddy shoots me an apologetic look. “He’s right, cock,” he says quietly.

Fuck.

Even I know when an argument is lost. So although I quite literally feel sick at the thought of Zinaida being naked and vulnerable on a stage, while the very worst of men do their best to murder her, I give a curt nod. “Fine. You dance. But you wear an earpiece,” I say grimly, locking eyes with her again. “If I give an order, you get the fuck offstage, or I’ll get on there and carry you off myself. Understood?”

“Ooh, McTasty!” Charlie clutches her heart in a mock swoon. “That almost sounded like foreplay.”

There’s a sudden burst of laughter, not least from the men of my troop. I glare at them.