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It's not just the insult, though it's a jagged pill to swallow, slashing at my sense of honor and virtue. No, it's more. It's the way that comparison slices through my carefully constructed walls, tearing at my protective instincts that have always driven me to shield and safeguard. My veins pulse with a mixture of indignation and frustration, a tumultuous storm of emotions that I can barely contain. The mere thought that someone might associate me, even indirectly, with the kind of pain and suffering that E.S. inflicted ignites a searing rage within me. It's toxic, corrosive, a venom that surges through my veins, demanding release. And here, now, it has found its outlet in the firestorm of words that lash out, fueled by an internal tempest I can't fully control. I feel her shrink from me as my vitriol pours over her, and I don’t give a damn. If she’s going to know me, she’s going to have to go through the ring of fire. She’s just like all the others. But that thought no sooner crystallizes when a thread of steely determination seeps through our link.
This time a punch of fury equal to my own surges through our link. “There you go with the threats again. Well, you know what mister, I’ve lived with threats from asshole men like you my whole life, and I’m not going to do it anymore. And let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t compare you to E.S., I said you’re too much like him. And that asshole, means that although you may have redeeming qualities, you make fucking threats like this to try and manipulate me and control my behavior. And I’m not buying it.” She pokes me in the arm with her index finger and hauls in a huge lungful of air.
I’m trying to get you to submit to me. I bat that troubling thought into the stratosphere.
She straightens in her seat, and this time, her gaze is cold like the edge of a scalpel. “One thing is for fucking sure, I’m not continuing this conversation while you’re behaving all aggressive and shit. God forbid I compare your assholish behavior to E.S. We’ll talk about this when you’re ready to actually converse instead of acting like a goddamn boorish asshole.”
Something inside me tingles with excitement as she lobs my vitriol back at me. She’s not like the rest of them! For a split second I let hope at finally finding someone who allows me to be without putting up with my bullshit open a channel to my libido. Desire bolts in as I acknowledge that in just a couple of days, I’ve done things with this young woman I haven’t done in decades. You let her touch you. I push that thought and my traitorous libido back where it belongs as I put the car in gear and merge back into the traffic on the busy 400-series highway. Not long now before we’re at the meeting.
Silence reigns as we burn away the next half hour navigating traffic, not comfortable but not uncomfortable either. More like unfinished business. When I feel her rage hit a low simmer through our bond, I threw out a peace bone.
“I should probably tell you what to expect at the meeting.”
She gives me another of her penetrating glares and I wait as curiosity slowly displaces her anger. Finally, she nods. “That would be good.” Her arm remains folded on her chest closing her off, but she keeps her gaze trained on my face. It’s rather unnerving the way she stares, but now is not a good time to bring up that particular complaint.
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m part of an undercover operation called Pandemonium Eruptus. Our mission is to shut down the Ontario sex trafficking ring called The Game and to rescue and rehabilitate as many victims as possible. Right now, there are nine people on the team: Razor Ramirez, the special forces operative and de facto leader and link to law enforcement; Connor McClane, owner of the Masquerade Club and one of the rescue team along with Sasha and myself; his wife and partner, Katherine, who coordinates our activity with the Harmony Hills Center; Brian, the Masquerade’s head of security and his wife, Asha, and Aleah, our newly appointed director of the international team.” I don’t mention that Aleah is my celestial contact on Earth who’s bringing a team of celestials that will run an expanded intelligence arm for the operation in the recently confiscated headquarters used by The Game. For now, that intel is on a need-to-know basis only.
Rayne takes a moment to load her questions. “What jobs are available? What makes you think they’ll hire me?”
Now is not the time to tell her that part of the bargain for making me an avenging angel was that I become part of this task force and that gave me a certain amount of clout. “Because we have an opening for someone who’s been on the inside who can give us intel and you fit the bill. Asshole.” I lay on the horn as one of Toronto’s signature aggressive drivers cuts me off in the usual traffic snarl.
Rayne wisely keeps her mouth shut while I navigate my way to the Amber Star hotel, home of The Masquerade Club and our residence during an active operation. I pull up in front and toss my keys to the valet who opens the car door. “Welcome back, Mr. Stone.”
I barely acknowledge the man’s existence, instead focusing my attention on Rayne as she beams a smile at the valet who opens her door. Grabbing her elbow, I usher her through the door forcing her to yell her “thank you” over her shoulder.
Rayne yanks her arm out of my grasp. “Rude much, CC? What’s the rush?”
“We’re late, and we’ve still got the security check to complete.” I continue my relentless march to the bank of elevators. She’s right, I’m being an asshole, but now is not the time for introspection.
We're already on the elevator before Rayne can muster any protest or launch into another round of her analytical questioning. I swiftly initiate the retinal scan, the only key to the penthouse's exclusive domain. As the doors slide open, revealing the understated opulence of the club's lobby, Rayne's gasp is a small, satisfying victory. I find myself intently watching her, silently cataloging each reaction. There's a part of me that's keen to see how she navigates this world—a world so familiar to me, yet so new and possibly intimidating to her. Good thing I’ve perfected the ability to watch someone without seeming to because Rayne seems to have radar where I’m concerned. Every time I look at her, her gaze tracks to me like a spotlight. Her eyes are like a fucking laser beam searing into my soul.
16
RAYNE
Stepping into the lobby of what looked like an ultra-luxurious hotel, I'm momentarily taken aback. The place is dripping with extravagance, each detail screaming wealth. I feel a pang of discomfort, like a stray thread in a tapestry of finery. Following Jaden across the busy lobby, a part of me wonders if I'm just another naive protagonist in a cliche romantic tale, about to make a monumental mistake. My rational side screams at me to blend into the crowd and disappear, but something deeper, a whisper in the back of my mind, urges me to stay. It's like my intuition and my skepticism are at war, with Jaden unknowingly playing referee.
Jaden leads the way to the elevator, his stride radiating confidence. I follow, my eyes scanning the surroundings, taking in the surreal perfection. It's like stepping into a painting where every brushstroke is calculated, yet I can't shake the feeling of being a misfit in this masterpiece.
The elevator doors slide open, and Jaden motions me inside. As the doors close behind us, the atmosphere shifts. It's more intimate, more intense. Jaden approaches a gold-toned panel, pressing a small dark pad beside the top button. My curiosity piques as I watch a small red light above it glow and then fade after completing a fingerprint and retinal scan. It's all so... James Bond-esque.
He hums a few bars of a song, and I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "What's with all the scanning?" I ask, my voice laced with a hint of suspicion.
“We’re heading into a members-only area. Security's tight,” he replies nonchalantly, but there's a hint of something more in his eyes, something that speaks of secrets and hidden depths.
“And the song?” I lean against the elevator wall, trying to sound casual even though my heart's racing. It's not just the situation; it's him. He's like a puzzle I can't quite solve, and damn it, I want to.
"'Spanked' by Van Halen,” he answers, and there's a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. We step out into a vestibule that's a stark contrast to the modern world we've left behind. Wide burnished walnut and alternating gold paneled walls, a cathedral ceiling crowned with a crystal chandelier, and gold- and black-veined marble flooring – it's like stepping into a historical romance novel. For a moment, I'm lost in the fantasy, imagining myself in a different time, a different life. But then reality snaps back, and I remember where I am – and who I'm with.
Jaden moves ahead, and I follow, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. There's a part of me that's drawn to him, to this mystery, but another part that's screaming caution. It's a delicate dance, and I'm not sure which way the music's going to take us. But one thing's for sure—I’m in this dance till the end, wherever it leads.
In my sweats, I feel glaringly out of place amidst this grandeur. A fleeting fantasy of me in an elegant gown, lace teasing at secrets best left hidden, flashes through my mind. I push it away, cheeks warming. Not the time, Rayne.
I sneak a glance at Jaden, searching for a crack in his stoic façade. Nothing. He’s a fortress, walls high and impenetrable. But there’s something about him, something that draws me in despite my better judgment. It's infuriating and intoxicating in equal measure.
The grandeur around us is overwhelming, yet it feels oddly fitting, like a backdrop to this surreal chapter of my life with the Pandemonium Eruptus team. It's all a game of shadows and whispers, and here I am, smack in the middle of it.
