Page 57 of Thorns of Deceit

But the whole sensation felt oddly familiar.

I shook the thought away, focusing on the rhythm, the swing of my hips, the sway of the fabric I was modeling. But the sensation lingered stubbornly.

The crowd applauded at the right moments, the flashes of cameras burning into my vision. I kept walking, kept smiling, kept performing, but the awareness stayed. It was in my chestnow, a heartbeat that felt foreign while a weight pressed at the back of my mind.

A familiar warmth twisted with unease. The floorboards beneath my heels seemed too sharp, the air too thick, as if it were charged with expectation.

I tried to shake it off, reminding myself that the eyes watching belonged to my friends’ families and their associates. But it was precisely that which made me uneasy. After my experience five years ago, it was quite normal, but it still made me paranoid to be around people I didn’t know. It was the reason I was always reserved around my friends’ families while hiding in plain sight as my mom said I should.

It’d served me well so far. And yet… there was a pull I couldn’t explain. A feeling that made my pulse hitch, that made my movements slightly sharper, a touch more careful.

With every step I took on the runway, warning crawled up my spine and curled in my stomach. The lights were blinding, but somehow they couldn’t diminish the weight of someone’s gaze on me.

I kept walking. And in the back of my mind, buried under the music and the applause, a question whispered, trembled, begged to be answered:

Who is watching me?

TWENTY-TWO

AIDEN

The memory from five years ago slammed into me like a freight train.

I’d just buried her or whatever was left of her. I’d stood at the edge of the grave and watched the casket descend into the open earth, the sound of clinking chains and shifting dirt echoing in my skull. The priest’s voice was a low, hollow murmur, swallowed by the wails and noise around me.

I couldn’t feel anything.

Back in the penthouse, the silence greeted me, heavy and unmoving. It pressed against my chest, just as my wife’s wedding ring dug into my palm and guilt into my heart.

The home was still, too still, as if it was holding its breath.

Raven’s things were everywhere, untouched, and almost frozen in time. Her sweater was slung over the back of the chair, a pale ghost of her warmth. Her favorite mug sat by the sink, the faint ring of coffee dried at the bottom. Her perfume still clung to the air, curling through the room like a memory refusing to fade.

The sight of it all made my stomach twist. My chest ached so hard it felt like my ribs might crack. I hated that I could still smell her when she was gone.

Two short weeks.

That was all it took for her to carve her name into my bones. Two weeks of laughter, of teasing smirks, of late-night whispers that somehow mattered more than anything else.

Now, there was just absence.

How could someone become so essential in so little time? Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something deeper, something I wasn’t ready to admit. I didn’t know, and I couldn’t bear to find out.

I turned toward the window, toward the city bleeding orange and gold beneath the dying sun. The light hit the glass, sharp and blinding, painting the room in molten hues. It looked almost like fire.

Then my phone buzzed.

I flicked a glance at it. It was Uncle Jack.

For a moment, I thought about ignoring it. I didn’t want to hear his voice. I didn’t want to be dragged back into business and blood. Not today.

But habit won. I swiped to answer.

“Duncan swears the explosion had nothing to do with him” was his greeting. His voice was rough, strained. “He says it was a gas malfunction.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” My voice cracked, thin and sharp.

“He blames us for Raven’s death,” Jack said after a pause, the sound of a lighter flicking faintly in the background. “And he’s threatening war.”