Now, amid the chaos of the room where the women were getting ready, Walkyria realized the air still felt compressed — as if the Contract had begun long before midnight ever arrived.

  The brothel had already been running for hours before Walkyria appeared in the grand hall. Her eyes scanned the room until they found Grey. She drew in two steady breaths before crossing the floor.

  He was seated at one of the corner tables, a glass of liquor in hand. It took him a second longer to recognize her in that polished version of herself, but the quiet laugh that followed betrayed him. Only Grey would notice it: Walkyria clearly hated the heels she was wearing.

  She tried to hide it, but every step looked like a battle against discomfort. Then, out of patience, she crouched gracefully, slipped off her heels, and with the ease of someone switching weapons, kicked them under a nearby table.

  Barefoot, her posture changed. Confidence flowed back into her stride.

  Grey’s voice came through the commlink, thick with amusement.

  “I’ll admit... the way you ditched those heels was practical. But you should see how you’re walking now. Like a cat in heat.”

  She rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh.

  “Want me to go fetch them back, then?”

  “Better not.” he replied, clearly entertained. “You look more authentic this way.”

  Grey adjusted the glass in his hand, leaning back slightly in the chair.

  “Focus. See the table straight ahead?”

  Walkyria followed his line of sight.

  There he was.

  His mask concealed only part of his face, as though secrecy meant little to him. A well-trimmed white mustache, a face aged but still vigorous, the kind of man whose air of respectability fooled the inattentive. For someone close to sixty, he still carried himself like he owned everything around him.

  A young woman rested on his lap, clearly uneasy. The subtle tremor in her movements gave her fear away. He seemed too entertained to notice the rest of the room.

  Grey didn’t miss the chance to add:

  “That’s your target. You’ll have to work to get his attention... he likes to be impressed.”

  Walkyria didn’t answer right away. Her eyes froze. Breath caught.

  The shock hit her so hard she forgot the scene, the hall, even Grey.

  The man wasn’t just a target.

  He was her former fiancé’s father.

  A chill ran down her spine; her shoulders locked tight. The disguise nearly shattered. Grey noticed instantly.

  Without hesitation, he stood and reached her in a few strides. His hand caught her waist, pressing her against a marble pillar, his body shielding hers, the picture of two lovers stealing a moment of intimacy. His hands moved over her in a convincing performance as he leaned in close to her ear.

  “What happened to subtlety and discretion?” His voice was low, sharp.

  A tense laugh escaped her. To mask the tremor inside, she buried her face in his shoulder, breathing deep. Her hand slid up the back of his neck, a languid, almost too-real motion, while she forced her thoughts back into order.

  Flashes of memory hit: her ex’s youthful, noble face blending with the image of his father, respected, untouchable, and now exposed as the monster who had suffocated helpless women. Rage burned through her, raw, electric, and laced with a dark thrill at the promise of vengeance.

  Her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest. With measured grace, she pushed him away and regained control of the scene. When she started walking again, her steps were no longer uncertain. They carried fire.

  Walkyria wasn’t just accepting the mission now.

  She was savoring it.

  In a few strides, she reached the table. The woman on the man’s lap looked up, confused, then froze. For a moment she didn’t seem to recognize her.

  “Wal?”

  The whisper was small, trembling. Deborah, one of the girls who’d spoken to Walkyria about Aurora the night before, stared at her, wide-eyed. Walkyria caught the terror in her expression, the sudden pallor. She knew Deborah had recognized the man too.

  Walkyria smiled faintly and nodded.

  Deborah tried to stand, to slip away quietly, but his hand caught her wrist. The grip was brutal, cutting her breath short with a muffled cry.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was rough, possessive.

  “You’ll have me, instead.”

  Walkyria’s voice came soft, almost sweet. The man looked her up and down, loosening his hold just enough. It was all she needed. In one smooth motion, she pulled Deborah free and slid into his lap herself.

  The move was flawless, like a dance she’d rehearsed a hundred times. Her hands found the back of his neck, drawing him close as though they were longtime conspirators.

  “Let me entertain you.”

  His eyes narrowed, a flash of surprise and intrigue sparking there. Her smile widened, fierce and sharp. She guided one of his hands up her body, from her waist to her neck. Instinct took over and his fingers pressed into her skin.

  Something dark flickered in Walkyria’s gaze, a cruel glint. To her surprise, she saw it mirrored in his. Two predators, recognizing each other, wrapped in the same dangerous masquerade.

  Grey’s voice hummed in her ear through the commlink.

  “Nice performance, but don’t push too far. That one likes to play until someone bleeds.”

  The grip around her neck tightened briefly, testing her. Walkyria didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned in closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

  “Think you can scare me?” she whispered, almost laughing. “I’ve known men like you.”

  He chuckled, the stench of liquor hot against her skin.

  “None of you ever do.”

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  Walkyria stayed perfectly calm, though her pulse thundered in her temples. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, was already shifting for her next move.

  She caught his wrist in a sudden, iron grip, strong enough to make him frown. After a moment’s hesitation, he released her neck, leaving faint marks on her skin. Her gaze stayed locked on him, cold and steady. To him, she looked like she’d enjoyed it.

  He had no idea what poison was already coursing through her veins.

  Then he grabbed her again, less harshly this time, pulling her close until his breath mingled with hers.

  “I like you...”

  “Aurora.” she finished for him, smiling wickedly.

  “Aurora...”

  Something flickered across his face, a flash of recognition. She saw it but didn’t waver. The mission was still on course. Her fingers traced down his chest, sliding behind his neck.

  “If you want to continue...” she murmured, “we’ll need somewhere more private... milord.”

  He grinned, savoring the word.

  “I like when you call me that, Aurora. And I certainly like the invitation.”

  She rose to her feet, never breaking eye contact. Her turn was smooth, calculated, her steps unhurried. A few of the other girls were watching, anxious. They knew the man.

  And they feared for Walkyria.

  But everything shifted when Barbara appeared.

  As if under a silent spell, each woman went back to her role, pretending nothing had been exchanged in that charged quiet. Barbara’s eyes followed Walkyria and the man. Sensing the gaze, Walkyria turned. Their eyes met for an instant.

  Barbara’s lips parted, a hand lifting slightly... then froze midair. Whatever words she’d meant to say, died unspoken. She turned away as quickly as she’d come, disappearing down the corridor as if nothing at all was happening.

  Walkyria closed the door behind her, eyes sweeping the hallway, no sign of Grey. Then she turned, and shut the door completely.

  She felt terribly alone in the vast, luxurious space.

  The King’s chamber was ostentatious to the point of absurdity for a brothel of that size. Heavy velvet drapes shut out the world, muffling every trace of sound. An oriental rug covered most of the old wooden floor. Everything in the room spoke of excess, though its true purpose remained evident: the carved mirrors above and beside the massive bed, the silk sheets gleaming under the dim candlelight, a bottle of wine and two glasses resting on a low table beside a grand sofa, and the air—thick with a sweetness that was almost cloying.

  A place designed to impress.

  Walkyria stepped inside with measured confidence, her breathing steady. The metallic taste of disgust still clung to her tongue, but her smile did not falter.

  The man before her looked far too at ease in that setting. He turned, and she noticed the neat white mustache trembling with his heavy breath. Two broad steps closed the distance between them, his thick fingers claiming her arm as if by right.

  She let him.

  His touch slid from her arm to her waist, then to her hip. When his lips brushed her skin, a wave of revulsion rippled through her, but he mistook it for something else, laughing under his breath, pleased with himself.

  Her stomach churned, yet Walkyria didn’t let it show. She released a soft, calculated laugh, masking her disgust with flawless precision.

  He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. Each touch burned, but she feigned a shiver of pleasure. The act had to go on.

  “You’re far more fiery than you seemed out there...” he murmured, aroused by the illusion.

  Walkyria exhaled near his ear, her voice a low purr.

  “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

  With careful grace, she pushed him back toward the edge of the bed. He chuckled, convinced he was still in control, and allowed himself to fall onto the silk sheets. His half-lidded eyes followed her every move, hungry with expectation.

  Walkyria climbed over him with feline precision, her movements slow, deliberate. Her dark hair fell in soft waves across his face, her silhouette outlined by the flickering candlelight, an enchantress made flesh. From above, she ruled the scene.

  “Like this...” she whispered, running her hand down his chest until her fingers closed firmly around his wrist. “Much better.”

  His expression flickered between surprise and ecstasy. He didn’t realize that, in that moment, the prey had become the hunter. Walkyria, however, felt the power thrum through her, alive in every motion, every breath.

  It was no longer a game.

  It was the beginning of the reckoning.

  ? ? ?

  The plan unfolded with precision.

  Grey, now seated at the table, rested his fingers against his chin — a gesture too restrained for someone watching the scene before him with an uneasy mix of surprise and admiration. In the end, he couldn’t stop the hint of a smile from forming — brief, hard — as he followed Walkyria’s languid movements, the calculated intimacy with which she leaned toward that vile Shrouded creature.

  Until the hand of his Contract slid around Walkyria’s narrow waist with a familiarity far too intimate, making Grey’s brow tighten before he even realized it. His expression hardened as he watched the fingers travel lower without shame, unhurried, tracing the curve of her body — and then the audacity: the hand closed, possessive, gripping her skin.

  Something inside him faltered.

  Grey’s fingers clenched around the glass with unnecessary force.

  “Sir?”

  The hoarse, trembling voice beside him snapped him back to the room like a dry shock. Still holding his posture, he shifted slightly on the bench and turned just enough to recognize the woman who, seconds earlier, had been sitting in his Contract’s lap.

  “Sir…” she hesitated, her breath uneven as her gaze flicked from his hand to his face. “Would you like another drink?”

  He frowned, then followed her eyes down to the glass in his hand... or what was left of it. The glass had given way, shattered in his grip, blood slipping down his fingers unnoticed, mingling with the wine.

  The woman, far too eager to please, handed him a small napkin.

  “I’ll be right back with your drink, sir.”

  Grey let out a low laugh. Short. Purely scornful, aimed more at himself than at the situation. He wiped the blood away carelessly, more interested in pinpointing the exact moment he’d lost control than in the wound itself.

  The young woman returned quickly with another glass. He thanked her with a slight incline of his head and took a sip, only then noticing she was still standing there — rigid, uneasy. When he lifted his gaze, the icy blue met hers with such intensity that she flinched, as if she’d been given a silent command.

  “Sir…” she swallowed hard. “You are going to help Walkyria, aren’t you?”

  Grey leaned back against the bench, one arm resting along the backrest. She kept going, her words tripping over themselves.

  “That monster… that horrible thing… he’s going to try to kill her. I know he is.” Her voice faltered. “And you… you seem to be the only one who actually cares.”

  She stepped a little closer, pretending to wipe an invisible stain from the table, just to murmur, almost pressed against him:

  “Please. Tell me you’re going to help her.”

  Grey smiled.

  He didn’t answer.

  He raised the glass and drained the last sip with the measured calm of someone who had no hurry — or who hid urgency very well. Then he stood, carrying himself with the natural hauteur that marked every movement, adjusted his jacket with practiced indifference, and headed down the corridor.

  With a casual adjustment of his jacket, he strode toward the corridor, steps steady, mind already set on what came next.

  That was when someone stepped into his path.

  Luna.

  “You came back...” she said, her voice low. Almost a whisper laced with expectation. “And you didn’t come looking for me?”

  He studied her in silence for a few seconds. Her young face was heavier with makeup than the last time he’d seen her. The light in her eyes was still there, but something was off, worn down, as if the shine had been stretched too thin. He caught it instantly.

  Grey sighed, the sound of a man carrying patience he didn’t wish to spend.

  “I didn’t come looking for anyone in particular tonight.” The crooked smile appeared, almost on instinct, an old reflex. “And, to tell you the truth, my intentions... are a little different this time.”

  Luna arched an eyebrow, incredulous.

  “You could at least pretend you missed me.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Moving with the trained grace of someone who knew exactly how to command a man’s gaze, she circled him slowly, a feline tracing its prey. Her fingertips brushed his shoulder, slid down his arm, stopping just shy of his wrist. The sweet, intoxicating perfume surrounded him as she leaned closer, her lips hovering far too near the curve of his neck.

  “I missed you...” she whispered, her voice soft, almost a spell. “You should know that.”

  Another step, now behind him. Her nails grazed the fabric of his jacket, testing its resistance. When she came back into view, Luna was smiling, playful, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

  “Maybe I can convince you to stay a little longer?”

  Once, Grey might have let her. He might even have enjoyed watching her weave the slow, indulged in the pleasure of temptation itself. But now, every movement she made felt distant, muted beneath the faint static leaking from his earpiece, the commlink carrying the muffled, unsettling sounds coming from the room down the hall.

  The sounds of his Contract target.

  And of Walkyria.

  Grey let Luna play her part for a few seconds longer, just long enough for her to believe she still had control. Then, suddenly, his hand clamped around her shoulders, firm and deliberate. She gasped, startled, and before she could react, he leaned in, his voice cutting through the air like a cold blade.

  “Let’s make a deal.” he murmured. “You didn’t see me tonight... and I won’t tell your madam I know you’re an Ascendant.”

  He drew back just enough to see her face, the shock frozen in her wide eyes. Grey took her silence as an answer and smiled, satisfaction twisting at the corner of his mouth. Without another word, he moved her aside with calculated ease and continued down the corridor.

  The sounds from the room were growing sharper now, escalating through the commlink.

  There was no more time to waste.

  ? ? ?

  intense (mature themes and some graphic violence).