Page 40 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

CLARY

M y phone buzzes just as I settle onto the couch, my heart sinking when I see Callie’s name flash across the screen. I hesitate for a second before answering, forcing a lightness into my voice that I don’t quite feel.

“Hey, Callie. What’s up?”

“Hey, Clary,” she says, her tone careful. “Sorry to bother you, but is Rory available for a meeting?”

I blink. “I, uh… I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet sigh. “Shit. I hope that wasn’t my fault.”

That catches me off guard. I shift on the couch, gripping my phone a little tighter. “Why would it be your fault?”

She hesitates. “After the gala, I…” She exhales sharply, like she’s bracing herself. “I tried to kiss him.”

A dull ache spreads through my chest. I don’t know why it still hurts. Rory is free to do whatever he wants, like he always does. But hearing it from her now, so plainly, still stings.

“He turned me down,” Callie rushes to say, like she can sense the storm of emotions unraveling inside me. “I just… I thought maybe that was why things changed between you two.”

I let out a breath, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “It’s not that,” I say, my voice softer than I expect. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Callie hums in understanding. “Yeah. I get it.” A pause, then a wry laugh. “I guess I’m just used to scaring men away lately. My stalker’s been doing a great job of ruining my love life.”

I press my lips together, my mind spinning. Rory has his hands full with the Russians. Whatever Callie wants from him, he won’t have the time to deal with it properly.

And maybe—just maybe—this is my chance to prove something. Not to him, not really. To myself.

I sit up a little straighter. “Callie… what if I help you instead?”

Silence stretches between us. “You?” she asks, cautious but intrigued.

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah. You want to put this stalker situation behind you, right? Find out who’s behind it and make sure they can’t come after you again?”

“Obviously,” she says, a little wary. “But I figured Rory would?—”

“Rory’s busy,” I cut in. “He’s dealing with things that don’t involve us. And I don’t need him to hold my hand through every little thing. I can handle this.”

Callie is quiet for a second, then lets out a slow, thoughtful hum. “Okay,” she says at last, her voice brightening with interest. “Let’s do it.”

I sit cross-legged on my couch, Callie’s phone in one hand and my laptop balanced on my thighs. She’s given me full access to her accounts—Twitter, Instagram, even her LinkedIn, though I doubt her stalker is networking for business opportunities.

“Tell me more about the stalker,” I ask as I search.

Callie shifts uncomfortably beside me on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“Well… it started with little things. First, there were the gifts. Small at first—like flowers, chocolates, stuffed animals. I thought it was harmless, maybe a secret admirer.” She exhales, as if even saying the words makes her stomach twist. “But then it started getting weirder. He left a scarf in my car. The same scarf he’d seen me wearing one time when I posted about it online.

And then there was the book, The Secret History .

He said he thought I’d like it. I didn’t even know he knew what books I liked. ”

I pause the scrolling and look at her, my brow furrowing. “Did you ever notice a pattern with the gifts? Or how he found you?”

She nods, her face pale. “He’d always leave something after I posted.

Not immediately, but within a few hours.

If I posted something about a coffee shop, he’d leave a coffee gift card with a note saying, We should meet here sometime .

” She shudders. “It wasn’t just random kindness, you know?

It was like he was tracking everything I did, waiting for me to post so he could show up with something that made it feel personal. ”

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I absorb her words. The pieces are clicking into place.

“And these gifts… did you ever notice the handwriting or any patterns in what he said?” I ask, trying to get to the heart of it.

Callie hesitates, her gaze flicking to the screen. “The notes were always short—like he was trying to make them sound casual. But it was the same type of phrasing over and over. Something about being ‘meant to be’ or ‘destiny’s waiting.’”

I scroll through her feed again, eyes scanning for those little clues. I’m looking for something more specific than just the comments. I’m looking for the method he used to interact with her. And then I see it.

“Look at this,” I say, showing her a post from three months ago where Callie had shared a photo of herself at a bookshop. The comment on it reads, “ You have intelligent eyes. You must know that I love seeing you have fun and be casual .” The phrasing is odd and stands out to me.

Callie looks closer, her lips trembling as she nods. “Yeah, I sometimes get weird comments like that.

As I scroll through more posts, I start to see it—different usernames, different profile pictures, but the words are always too similar. And then there’s the rhythm. A few hours after Callie posts something personal, a comment appears, always with the same awkward, stilted syntax.

Callie stares at the screen, her hands gripping her knees tightly.

“I thought it was just harmless attention at first. But now… now, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore.

I’ve blocked so many accounts, but they just keep making new ones.

I don’t even know if it’s the same person anymore.

It’s like I’m being hunted, but I don’t know by whom. ”

The more I scroll through her posts, the more I start to see a pattern. Different usernames, different profile pictures… but the tone is the same.

You are looking very much beautiful in this dress.

I am happy for you always. You must know this.

You have so much kindness. You should not be alone ever.

One day you will be very greatly happy. I like to see you happy.

The phrasing is stiff. Unnatural. Like someone trying too hard to sound casual but missing the mark. And this pattern repeats over and over again, scattered across months’ worth of posts. Different accounts, same energy.

I run my finger over the screen, feeling the sting of recognition. They all feel the same. Not just the phrasing, but the tone.

And then it hits me.

These comments aren’t just creepy—they’re possessive. The person behind them isn’t just admiring Callie, they feel as if they’re entitled to her.

I open a fresh document and start copying usernames, making note of the timestamps, cross-referencing posts. If this guy is hiding behind multiple accounts, there has to be a connection somewhere.

“I think I have a lead now,” I tell Callie. “If you need to go, I can handle it from here.”

“Can I have my phone back?” she asks, a note of anxiety in her voice.

“Yeah, I’ll just copy the data I need onto this USB,” I say, reaching for it and swapping the data as quickly as I can.

Callie takes off, and I search back over the information, certain that I’m still missing something.

Realizing I need help figuring this out, I rack my brain for whom I can call.

There are plenty of men in Rory’s organization who could help, but I don’t want this getting back to him right now.

I want him to know I can handle this without him.

I scroll through my contacts until a name jumps out at me.

Mark Veridan.

Veridex literally specializes in biotechnology and advanced data tracking. If anyone could find a connection between all these accounts, it’s him.

I tap his name and hit Call .

He picks up on the second ring. “Oh, hello, Clary. Does Rory need something?”

“No. I need a favor.” I get straight to the point. “Can Veridex track someone’s identity based on the pattern of their online comments?”

There’s a pause. I can almost hear him adjusting in his seat. “Are you talking about finding someone’s IP?” His voice is a mix of disbelief and curiosity, like he can’t decide whether I’m insane or brilliant.

“Sort of. This person probably uses a VPN, so that won’t be easy. And I think they’re using a series of alt accounts to stalk someone. There’s a certain pattern to their comments that makes me think it’s all connected.”

Mark exhales sharply. “Does this have anything to do with that attempt on my life? Are the Russians involved?” There’s a note of concern in his voice now, and I don’t blame him.

I keep my tone even. “No. It’s nothing like that.” Not yet, at least.

There’s another pause, then he sighs. “I can help you, but it’d be better if you brought the info in person. We don’t want to leave a paper trail if this guy is watching.”

“Can’t I just send it to you?”

“No. If they’re covering their tracks, the last thing we want is them realizing we’re onto them.”

That seals it. “Okay. I’ll meet you in an hour.”

Mark is still under Rory’s protection since the assassination attempt, and it shows.

When I arrive, two of Rory’s men flank the entrance to the safehouse, their expressions unreadable, but their eyes track my every move.

They don’t stop me, but there’s an unspoken warning in the way they stand—this place is locked down tight.

Inside, Mark sits at a wooden table, a laptop open in front of him. He gestures for me to sit. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I slide a USB drive across the table. “Everything’s in there. Usernames, timestamps, comments—all from different accounts, but the phrasing is too similar. I think it’s the same person.”

Mark plugs it in and starts typing, his fingers moving fast over the keyboard. His brow furrows. “You’re right. The syntax is off. Feels… forced. Like someone’s trying to sound casual but missing the mark.”

A cold weight settles in my stomach, but I keep my expression neutral. “So you can find them?”

Mark smirks. “Oh, I’ll find them.”

I should feel relieved. Instead, unease coils in my gut.

A few hours later, I get a text from Mark.

Mark: Running the data now. Should have preliminary results in a few hours. Will keep you updated.

Clary: Thanks. Let me know as soon as you find something.

Mark: I don’t like this. Too many red flags. Some of these dummy accounts have been scrubbed recently—like someone was covering their tracks.

Clary: Scrubbed? How recently?

Mark: A few within the last 24 hours. Someone knew you were looking.

I stare at my screen, a chill running through me.

Someone knew.

And they’re already trying to disappear.

A few hours later, my phone buzzes with a text from Mark.

Mark: Results are in. Check your inbox. You won’t believe this.

I open my laptop, clicking through to the email. The file he’s attached is full of data, a long string of usernames, timestamps, and comments that I’d already gone over. But there’s something new in Mark’s message.

I skim the file, my eyes darting over the familiar patterns I’d already seen. But then something stops me cold.

The usernames… they’re all from the same IP address.

I scroll down, trying to piece it together. My fingers pause as I stare at the geographical location data attached to the IP.

It’s right in the heart of Thornville. Smack dab in Russian territory.

And the stalker’s name?

Dmitry Petrov.