Living her life, unaware she was being watched.
Unaware she was being hunted.
I picked up the photo of her at the piano again, studying the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her profile. There was something compelling about her—a quiet strength, a contained passion. She wasn't conventionally beautiful in the way that caught most men's attention. Her features were too sharp, her gaze too intense.
But I couldn't look away.
I slid my finger along the edge of the photo, imagining it was her skin beneath my touch. Soft. Warm. Alive.
Mine.
The thought came unbidden, startling in its possessiveness. I'd seen countless women, bedded more than my share. None had ever triggered this immediate, visceral response. This need to possess, to control, to consume.
I gathered the photos and documents, tucking them back into the folder. Then, instead of returning it to the pile of intelligence, I slipped it under my arm and left the war room.
My private office was on the third floor of the estate, away from the main areas where business was conducted. It was my sanctuary—the one place where I could let my guard down, if only slightly.
I locked the door behind me and went to my desk, opening the bottom drawer where I kept my most sensitive files. I placed Grace's dossier inside, then hesitated, pulling out the photo of her at the piano one last time.
I studied it in the dim light of my office, committing every detail to memory. The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers hovered over the keys. The single strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, curling against her cheek.
In that moment, something shifted inside me—a realignment of priorities, a clarification of purpose.
The O'Sullivans were business. A problem to be solved. An obstacle to be removed.
But Grace... Grace was something else entirely.
I placed the photo in my inside jacket pocket, close to my heart, and closed the drawer.
Business could wait.
I had a new target now.
3
GRACE
The dress Lila held up was ridiculous—a scrap of black fabric that would barely cover what needed covering, with strategic cutouts that left nothing to the imagination.
"Absolutely not," I said, turning back to my Constitutional Law textbook. "I have a paper due Monday."
"It's Friday night, Grace." Lila flopped onto my bed, the dress draped dramatically across her chest. "You've been buried in that book since Wednesday. The paper isn't due for ten days, and we both know you'll finish it in three."
I highlighted another passage, pretending to ignore her. Lila Winters had been my roommate freshman year at Radcliffe before I moved off-campus. She was everything I wasn't—spontaneous, outgoing, unapologetically hedonistic. And somehow, despite our differences, she'd become the closest thing to a real friend I had.
"The club is exclusive," she continued, examining her perfect manicure. "Like, seriously exclusive. My cousin's boyfriend is on the security team, and he says even celebrities get turned away."
"Fascinating," I murmured, flipping a page.
"There's a dress code. Dark colors only. Masks optional but encouraged. Very Eyes Wide Shut, but classier."
I looked up at that, despite myself. "Masks? What kind of club is this?"
Lila grinned, knowing she'd caught my interest. "It's called Tenebris. It's in that renovated church downtown—you know, the one with all the Gothic architecture? They only open on the full moon."
"That sounds like a cult, not a club."
"The line between the two is thinner than you'd think." She sat up, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Come on, Grace. When's the last time you did something just for fun? Something your father would hate?"
