Page 89 of Goldflame
My gaze sweeps the room. “Yes. Let’s find our target.”
I still can’t believe he didn’t flinch when I told him everything. Three nights ago, after he’d shaved my legs with such tenderness, something broke open. Sitting wrapped in a towel on the edge of the bathtub, I confessed everything—DeMarco’s poisoning, Whitman’s execution in that restaurant bathroom, Victoria’s fiery end. I shared the ugly, brutal details of each death, waiting for his judgment and for him to tell me how difficult I made his life back when Lucian was still alive. I also rambled on about all the names still on my list.
Adrian had simply listened, his face unreadable as I described my bloody path of vengeance. When I finally ran out of words, he was silent for several long moments.
“You did all that by yourself?” he asked finally, his voice oddly calm.
I nodded.
“Impressive.” A small smile curved his lips. “Truly impressive, Aurelia. Your methods show remarkable ingenuity and precision.”
I felt my cheeks flush, warmth spreading beneath my skin. Had he just… complimented my killing techniques?
“My father had us searching the wrong leads it seems,” he added, a hint of admiration in his tone. “We never even considered you.”
The contrast with Julian’s reaction couldn’t havebeen more stark. When Julian discovered my revenge plans, his offer to help always came with strings attached—with control, with conditions.
I’ll help you, but not yet.
I’ll help you, but you have to wait.
I’ll help you, but only if you bend to my will.
Adrian’s offer was simple: “There’s a Consortium party this weekend. We could go together. Francis, the other DeMarco still on your list, will be the easiest kill.”
Just like that. No power play, no attempt to assert dominance. Just a genuine desire to help me achieve what I want.
Now I feel his fingers interlace with mine, the firm pressure of his hand pulling me back to the present moment. We move deeper into the party, into the swirling vortex of Seattle’s most dangerous elites.
Together.
The mansion belongs to someone whose name I don’t know. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, adding a glow to everyone’s masks. And I can smell expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and somewhere beneath it all, the unmistakable tang of sex.
A woman passes by, her breasts completely exposed above an elaborate corset. A leash connects her throat to the hand of the masked man beside her. He tugs it, and she follows obediently, her vacant eyes staring straight ahead. No one else seems to notice or care.
“Remember to breathe,” Adrian murmurs, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist where my pulse thunders.
“I’m fine,” I say, though the edges of my vision blurslightly.
“We can leave anytime.”
“No.” I square my shoulders. “Francis first. Then we leave.”
Adrian nods. “We should mingle separately. Less conspicuous that way. I’ll work the east side of the room, you take the west. We’ll meet back here in twenty minutes to compare notes.”
Anxiety squeezes my stomach at the thought of navigating this crowd alone, but I also feel powerful. I’m no longer the Consortium’s victim. I’m here for retribution.
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Don’t be late.”
His lips curve into a smile that transforms his face. Even with the partial mask and the subtle changes to his appearance, that smile is completely Adrian.
“I’m never late,” he reminds me, then slips away into the crowd like a shadow dissolving into darkness.
I watch him go, then turn in the opposite direction, mentally rehearsing the details Adrian and I have memorized about our target.
Francis DeMarco. Forty-three years old. Took over the family’s drug distribution network after his cousin Vincent’s “untimely” death. He likes bourbon, struggles with gambling debts and drug addiction, and according to Adrian, has a fondness for blondes.
Lucky me.
