An exhale escapes through my nostrils, and I whimper, a puddle at his feet. Noticing, he shifts his hand from my mouth to my throat and wraps his long fingers around me, seductive and threatening. My life is in his hands. As he squeezes, I gasp, trapped between his hard body and the wall, pinned like a butterfly by the reaper.
“Such a delicate little thing,” he murmurs, eyes on his hand around my throat. “So breakable.” I feel him caress my pulse point, my skin burning beneath his corrupt touch. He applies pressure, and my clit pulses almost painfully. Delacroix is a weapon. A deadly hurricane. A firestorm.
Darkness invades the edges of my vision as I claw at his wrists, gasping for a sliver of breath.
Just as fast, his touch disappears, and he pulls me away from the door, guiding me through the crowd with a possessive hand on the small of my back. There’s no point fighting him. I’d be dead before I could reach for a weapon. Besides, my advantage of surprise is gone. The truth is, I never had it. Delacroix knew I was here all along. He was never chasing shadows. No, he waited for his prey to walk willingly into his trap before he showed his cards.
His fingers burn the small of my back as we walk up the winding staircase to the second floor. He moves like a king—a man who commands power and respect.
Pawns and Disciples lower their heads as we pass, but the man at my side ignores them, his attention on me. He’s notlooking in my direction, but I know he’s aware of my every inhale.
We enter an office, a vast space with a desk and a separate seating area. Large wing-backed chairs face an impressive fireplace with intricate carvings. Not an item is out of place. Music pulses through the walls, disturbed by voracious laughter and the occasional fearful scream.
I can’t look away from my friends near the window, each flanked by a massive security guard. Keith’s injured hand is bleeding profusely, and so is his kneecap. There’s duct tape on his lips, and his arms are tied behind him. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Delacroix is an excellent shot, so it’s not lost on me that he kept Keith alive. But why? He’s not capable of mercy.
Carlo bleeds from a cut on his lip, his right eye swollen shut. He’s trying to remain brave, but every time the security guard shifts behind him—however slight—he flinches. Lauren is the only one crying, her loud sobs adding to the tension.
Delacroix crouches in front of me and trails his warm fingers from my ankle to my thigh, pausing to palm the back of my knee and bring it to his lips. His touch is gentle, like a lover, but he can’t fool me. There’s a darkness within him that can’t be leashed or tamed. He’s unpredictable and dangerous.
He lowers my knee and relieves me of every weapon strapped to my legs except for one—a butterfly knife strapped to the inside of my thigh.
Our eyes meet as he rises and hands the weapons to a masked Disciple who whisks off just as fast. It’s a test, I realize, as he saunters to the bar and proceeds to remove his mask and pour himself a glass of bourbon. He’s curious to see what I’ll do. Am I gutsy enough to use my weapon?
The liquid splashes against the sides as I try to catch Keith’s gaze, but his jaw clenches. They must wonder why I’m not tiedup like them, with a burly guard behind me. I ask the same thing. My fingers itch to grab the knife and hurl it at Delacroix—God knows my aim would ring true; I’ve practiced long enough. But it would be foolish. Delacroix would punish not only me, but my friends.
The minutes tick by while he types on his phone and sips his expensive bourbon without glancing in my direction. It’s another mind game. I try not to fidget.
Throw the knife.
Do it.
“These are your friends, are they not, Miss van der Meer?” He pockets his phone and swirls the tumbler, watching me from beneath his dark lashes. Taking a long sip, he says, “I’m curious. Do they know who you are?” His steps carry him closer until his mysterious scent swirls around me like the electric summer air before a storm. I greedily fill my lungs with his poison. He’s close enough now that his heat warms me through his dress shirt. I smell the bourbon on his breath when he tips my chin up with his fingers.
I jerk away, but he tightens his grip, touching me like I’m already his. “Do they know you’re one of us?”
“I’ll never be one of you,” I hiss.
He falters then with his fingers on my jaw. I stand my ground, allowing him to remove my mask. A disciple materializes and takes it. Delacroix keeps his sole attention on me, skimming his thumb over the swell of my bottom lip. Everything he does is a sensual act—from how he touches me, looks at me with those frosty eyes, or allows his bourbon-scented breath to dance across my lips—but I’m not stupid. His touch could force pleasure or pain. It could give life or snuff it out.
“Wrong,” he says, sounding so self-assured I want to punch him square in the nose. “You’re already one of us.” Cupping my chin, he touches me with reverence, whispering secrets with hisgaze. “You can spit fire at me all you want with those big eyes, but it doesn’t change who you are, sweetheart.”
I suck in a breath when he releases my chin. His powerful shoulders shift beneath his dress shirt while he circles me. Every time he walks behind me, the hairs on my neck stand on edge. Delacroix seems even bigger. I feel so small next to him, and it’s both exhilarating and infuriating.
As he sizes me up like a predator, I stand my ground with my chin tilted high, refusing to look weak. A man like Delacroix could smell it a mile away if I lowered my guard. My pride is my greatest weapon. Surely, I must have cards to play, or why are my friends and I alive? He could have killed us downstairs to make an example out of us, but I have something he wants. A weapon I can yield. But what? I’m glancing in my friends’ direction when the door opens and a group of men enters. Three of whom wear gold masks. They line up against the back wall with their hands clasped in front of them.
Elders.
I’ve heard about this. Witnesses. They’re here to witness Delacroix present his offering.
A cold sliver of panic coils my insides. This is bad news. I pause when I spot the last man in the procession. Father Faulkner. So the rumors are true—his pockets are full of corrupt money. Cheeks flushed with anger, my chest tightens. This is the same priest who married my parents.
Sweat beads on his forehead as he greets Delacroix, casting a few worried glances toward my friends, looking anxious. I reach for the knife in my slit, ready to bulls-eye him between the brows.
Delacroix turns in my direction. “Miss van der Meer.”
I straighten, the skirt falling back into place.
“No need to look so worried. These gentlemen are my closest allies. I’d trust them with my life. You can rest assured that thetruth won’t leave this room. You have my word.” He sweeps his hand toward my friends. “You were a good girl and brought my offerings to the party.”
