"I'm just doing what you told me to," I hiss back, my heart still racing from the rush of defiance.
"Playing the part."
"You're doing more than playing it. You're living it."
He stops near a marble pillar, shielding us slightly from the center of the room. He doesn't look at me; his gaze is fixed on the grand mahogany staircase leading to the private balconies above.
"Look up. Second balcony on the right," he commands, his voice dropping into a business-like chill.
I follow his gaze.
Standing there, leaning against the gold-leaf railing, is a man who looks entirely too comfortable in this nest of vipers. He’s younger than Thorne, with sharp, bird-like features and a suit that cost more than my medical degree.
Beside him stands a woman in a stark, sterile white gown, a sharp contrast to the dark opulence of everyone else. She isn't wearing jewelry. She’s wearing a look of absolute, cold calculation. I recognize her, but we never really met in person.
"That’s Alaric Doran," Deimos says, his grip on my arm tightening just enough to keep me close to him.
"The 'Clean-up Crew' for the European faction. And the woman beside him is Dr. Aris Foster. No relation to the Councilman, though she’s just as poisonous. She’s his personal pathologist. His blood-hound."
I watch as the woman in white looks down, her eyes locking onto mine across the crowded floor. There is no warmth in them. Only a silent, intellectual challenge.
"Doran thinks he’s brought a better weapon to the table tonight," Deimos murmurs, his eyes darkening as he finally looks down at me.
"He thinks his doctor knows more about the threshold of death than mine does. She’s going to try to corner you, Madeline. She’sgoing to test your knowledge, your stomach, and your loyalty. Show her why you’re the one who survived the night with me."
I feel the shift in my own blood, a heat that isn't fear, but something much more powerful. For a long time, I’ve been the one in the mortuary, the one who saw the truth while the detectives fumbled with their pride. I’ve been the smartest person in the room, and I’ve had to stay silent for all of it.
But tonight, the silence is over.
I feel Deimos’s gaze on the side of my face, tracking the way my jaw sets, the way my pupils sharpen as I stare back at the woman in white. He wants a weapon? Fine. I’ll show him a goddamn nuclear strike.
"She’s staring at my hands, Deimos," I whisper, my voice dropping an octave, becoming cold and clinical.
"She’s looking for tremors. She’s looking for the 'simple' doctor you found in a public morgue. She thinks she’s the only one here who’s ever reached into a chest cavity and touched a heart while it was still warm."
"And what do you think?"
He asks, his voice a low, encouraging growl.
"I think she looks like someone who’s spent too much time in private labs with clean bodies and expensive equipment," I say, my competitive instinct flaring into a white-hot spark.
"She’s never had to work a triple homicide in a basement with no ventilation and a broken light. She doesn't know what real death smells like. I do."
I don't wait for them to come to us.
I adjust my grip on Deimos’s arm, my fingers digging into his muscle, signaling him to move. We don't wait for the intercept; we meet them halfway, right in the center of the marble floor, beneath the weight of a three-ton crystal chandelier.
Alaric descends the stairs with the predatory elegance of a man who owns the air he breathes. But it’s the woman, Dr. Aris, who holds my focus.
"What a shock," Doran says, his accent thick and honeyed.
"I heard you found yourself a new partner. I didn't realize she was so... academically decorated."
He looks at me, but I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on Aris. Doran stands there, his hands tucked into his pockets, watching the two of us.
But Aris doesn't wait for the men to grant her permission to speak. She takes a slow, deliberate step toward me, her white gown trailing behind her like a sterile shroud. She’s taller than me, and she uses it, tilting her head down to look at me. Her eyes scan the silk of my dress, lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulders, before snapping back to mine with a look of pure, academic condescension.
"Dr. Emerson," she says, her voice as sharp and cold as a scalpel left in the freezer.
