The excitement of yesterday’s lessons barely masked the soreness in Elena’s muscles. She let out a small yell as she tried to sit up. Quickly taking one of her birth control pills, she dressed in silence—leggings, a simple tank—and forced down toast and coffee in the cavernous kitchen, with a quick hello to Marta. She moved with purpose down to the garage, the air cooling, thick with oil and rubber.

Victor was already there—a mountain of muscle under harsh fluorescent light. Iron plates clanged as he pressed the bar, veins corded in his neck, his grey shirt dark with sweat. He racked it with a final clang as she reached the mat, his breathing steady. “Morning,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Warm up. Then we work on escapes from a rear grab. Today, we go lighter. We don’t want to cause any damage to your muscles.

She finished her stretches, the muscles in her thighs pulling tight, and as she rose, she caught the dark ink curling over the swell of Victor’s right shoulder where his sweat-damp shirt had ridden up. It appeared to be a flower, stem wrapped around a dagger, the detail intricate even in the garage’s harsh light.

“Your tattoo,” she said, nodding toward it as she shook out her arms. “What flower is it?”

Victor turned, his expression unreadable, and pulls the shirt fabric taut over the design. “An iris. It’s a reminder.” His voice was flat. “Of something long lost.”

The word caught in Elena’s mind.

Iris.

She thinks briefly of the little keepsake she’d found in his bathroom. For my Iris.

Victor quickly steped onto the mat, his movements economical as he interrupts her thoughts. “We’ll start with the basics. I come from behind, wrap my arms around your upper body, pin your arms to your sides. Your job is not to fight my strength. Your job is to escape.”

He demonstrates without touching her, miming the grab, his own massive arms crossing in front of his chest. “Drop your weight. Sudden. Like a stone. Then shift your hips to one side, create a pivot, and drive your elbow back into my ribs. The goal is shock, space, run. Do not try to overpower. Do you understand?”

Elena nods, her heart beginning a steady, heavy rhythm against her ribs. She turns her back to him, facing the mat and the distant, shadowed hood of a car. The air is cool on her skin, but a heat prickles across her shoulders- anticipation, and a flicker of yesterday’s confidence. She heard his step behind her, the quiet scuff of a boot on rubber. Then his arms are around her.

The contact is instantaneous, total. His forearms lock across her ribcage, just beneath her breasts, pinning her own arms to her sides. He doesn’t squeeze, but the containment is absolute—a wall of muscle and intent. Her breath hitches. She can feel the damp heat of his chest through her tank top, the solid beat of his heart against her spine. For a second—nothing. No technique. No plan. Just… held.

Then it snaps back. Escape.

She drops her weight, a sharp collapse that makes him grunt in approval as he adjusts his stance to take her sudden dead weight. Good. Now shift. She throws her hips to the left, trying to create the pivot, and drives her right elbow back. It connects with solid muscle, not bone. He doesn’t budge. “Again,” he says into her ear, his voice calm. “Faster. You’re thinking. Don’t think.”

She tries again. And again. Time collapses. Just his arms. The mat. Her breath—too fast, too loud.

Drop. Shift. Drive.

Again. Drop. Shift. Drive.

Her muscles burn, her lungs scream, but on the seventh attempt, something clicks. Her weight drops hard and sudden, her hip pivoting sharply, and her elbow shoots back—not into muscle but into the soft space just below his ribs. His grip loosens—a fraction, half a second—and she slips downward, twisting free to stumble two steps away, chest heaving.

It works. It actually works. The grin hits before she can stop it.

“Yes!” she gasps, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

And then—she pushes it too far.

Seeing an opening, she steps back in, not to reset, but to lunge, her hands going for a clumsy wrist lock she’d seen him use on her. It’s all impulse, all show. Victor’s expression doesn’t change. His hand snaps up, captures her wrist, and in one fluid, devastating motion, he twists her arm behind her back, hooks her ankle, and drives her down. The air leaves her lungs in a violent rush as her chest and cheek slam into the rubber mat. His weight follows, a knee pressing into the back of her thigh, his torso a granite slab across her shoulders, pinning her utterly.

No air. No movement. Just weight.

He holds her there for three heartbeats—a forever of pressure and submission—then releases her just as quickly, rolling off and rising to his feet in a single motion. Elena lies gasping, the shock of impact radiating through her ribs. “I told you to escape. Not engage. You are not built for strength, and you will NOT take down someone larger than you without years of practice.” Victor says, his voice stern and holding a low, strong rumble in the vast garage. He takes a breath and composes himself. He extends a hand down to her. “I apologize. That was too rough. We should call it.”

Furious with herself, she ignores his hand, pushing herself up onto her elbows, a dull ache already blooming across her sternum. It’s not the pain.

It’s him being right. “I’m fine,” she grits out, but the waver in her voice betrays her. She pushed herself to her feet, avoiding his gaze. She continues to feel the place where his weight crushed against her.

“You got the technique,” he says, retrieving a towel and wiping his neck. “Then you stopped listening to my instructions. The goal is escape, not victory. Never engage if you don’t have to. Especially not with someone like me.” He says it not as a boast, but as a bleak fact. “Rest. Hydrate. I would say we could continue tomorrow, but you should probably rest. Today won’t be kind to your body.”

Elena nods, walking stiffly toward her water bottle. The adrenaline fades, leaving a deep ache in her body.

The next few days settled into a steady rhythm of preparation, and long hours spent making sure nothing had been overlooked. She didn’t do any more training with Victor while she worked through the remaining details of the auction until there was little left to do but wait.

The evening before the auction, her phone buzzed with a message from Sebastian. He confirmed the hotel room they'd discussed had been arranged for her two blocks from the Velvet Rope—a quiet place to prepare.

She read the message, then set the phone down and stared at the wall. The plan had been hers, but somehow it was moving now. Gaining speed. She was standing on a train that had already left the station, and the tracks ran straight through unknown territory.

She packed a single bag. A change of clothes for the morning after, her tablet, a leather folder with the auction notes, a small makeup case she'd bought years ago for a college presentation and rarely even used. She zipped it shut and sat on the edge of her bed, the room quiet around her, and realized she was afraid. Not of the auction, or the work. Of what she was walking into—the unknown, the people she would have to trust, and the possibility that Sebastian had drawn her into something far more dangerous than an auction.

She dressed carefully. A fitted charcoal blazer over a cream silk blouse, dark trousers that moved with her, low heels that she could actually walk in. She checked herself in the mirror and tugged a strand of hair into place, then decided she looked like someone who belonged at an auction. A professional. She could be that now.

Victor was waiting by the car when she came down the front steps of the manor, his arms crossed and his jaw set tight. He took her bag without a word and stowed it in the trunk, then held the passenger door open with a gesture that was almost too polite for a man who'd spent the last two days teaching her to break a wrist hold.

“You look like you're going to a funeral,” she said, sliding past him.

“I'm not thrilled about tonight.”

“It's an auction, Victor.”

“An auction Sebastian arranged without giving us time to prepare.” He shut the door. “We don't like surprises.”

The drive to the Velvet Rope was quiet, the city sliding past the windows in a blur of glass and steel and the occasional flash of neon. Victor kept his eyes on the road, his hands loose on the wheel, but there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there during their training sessions. He'd asked twice that morning whether Liam knew she was going. She'd given him the same answer both times. She hadn’t seen him and was doing what was best for Rossi Arts.

"You should have told him," Victor said now, as the car turned onto a street lined with low brick buildings.

"He's not my keeper."

"He's the man who owns your business that says otherwise."

She turned to look at him. "You think I need his permission?"

"I think you need to be careful about what you do with his name while he's not watching." He pulled the car to the curb and killed the engine. "That's all."

The Velvet Rope sat at the end of the block, a low-slung building with a black awning and a single red door. The windows were dark, but a small brass sign beside the entrance read in elegant script: The Velvet Rope — Members Only.

A large, dark-skinned man in a black suit stood outside, his hands clasped in front of him. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes as he guarded the street.

Victor got out first and scanned the street, then nodded once. “Let's go.”

“Why are you so tense? You're acting weirder than my father on prom night.”

“Because if something goes wrong, I'm the one answering to Liam.”

Elena didn't love the implication that she was something Victor had to answer for, but she let it pass. There were bigger battles to pick.

The man at the door recognized Victor and stepped aside, pulling the heavy red door open with a soft click. Inside, the club was a different world from the street — dark wood, low amber lighting, the smell of leather and expensive perfume and something faintly sweet, like the ghost of a cocktail. The bass from the main floor thrummed through the walls, a low heartbeat she felt in her heels. Victor stayed a step behind her as they walked, close enough that she could feel his presence like a wall at her back.

The back room where the auction would be held was already being transformed. Workers in black moved between racks of chairs, adjusting velvet ropes and testing the lighting on a raised platform at the far end. A bar was along one wall, the bottles glittering in the amber light, and a young woman with a clipboard was directing the placement of a podium. Elena stopped just inside the doorway and took it in — the careful choreography of it, the way every piece had a place and a purpose. She knew this world. She could breathe in it.

"Elena!"

Sebastian Hart crossed the room toward her, all easy grace and warm smile, his black suit cut so sharp it could have drawn blood. His light brown hair was swept back, his hazel eyes bright with genuine pleasure, and the pocket square at his chest was a deep burgundy that caught the light like a warning. He reached for her and took her hand in both of his, his grip warm and brief.

"You made it," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."

"I don't back out of things I've agreed to."

"Good. That's the kind of person I want running this room."

He let go of her hand and stepped back, his gaze moving over her once — not in the way men looked at her when they wanted something, but in the way a curator looked at a painting he was considering. Appraising. Admiring. His smile widened slightly, and she caught the faintest flicker of something warmer beneath the professional polish.

"You look the part," he said. "Better than the part, actually."

"I dressed for the job."

"You dressed for the job and made everyone else in the room look underdressed. There's a difference." He gestured toward the bar. "Can I get you something? We have a few minutes before the first round of meetings."

"Water, please."

"Water it is." He signaled to the bartender, then turned back to her, his voice dropping slightly. "I want to talk through the final lot order before the clients arrive. A few of them are particular about how the evening flows."

"I have notes." She reached for her leather folder. "I flagged a couple of concerns—"

"Of course you did." He smiled. "That's why I asked you."

They moved to a small table near the back of the room, and Elena spread her notes out, walking him through her adjustments to the order — a piece by an emerging sculptor moved earlier to catch the attention of a collector who tended to leave before the final lots, a series of prints grouped to build momentum toward the centerpiece. Sebastian listened with his chin in his hand, his eyes never leaving her face, and for a few minutes they were just two professionals doing their jobs.

"Damn, You're good at this," he said when she finished. "I mean it. I've had curators who've been doing this for twenty years who don't think in terms of narrative. You understand that an auction is a story, not just some list."

"I've always thought of it that way."

"It shows." He leaned back, his glass of amber liquid catching the light. "I'm glad you said yes. I was worried you'd be too busy with Thorn."

"I needed to think about it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm here."

He smiled at that, a slow, deliberate curve of his mouth. "So you are."

They were interrupted by a low voice from the doorway — a man's voice, smooth and cold, cutting through the murmur of the room like a blade through silk.

"Sebastian. A word."

Elena turned. A young man stood in the entrance, tall and lean with pale skin and dirty blond hair cut short and neat, his sharp jawline and winter-blue eyes framed by an immaculately tailored dark gray suit and silver tie. He carried himself with the kind of stillness that suggested he was used to being obeyed.

Beside him, a familiar-looking girl hovered at his elbow. She wore a black leather jacket over a simple black dress, torn jeans, and combat boots—the kind of outfit that suggested she didn't care what anyone thought of her, and meant it. She was petite, with short black hair and sharp green eyes. Then Elena saw the small silver ring through her lower lip.

Recognition clicked into place.

Veya.

Sebastian rose smoothly from his chair, his smile never wavering. "Alaric. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

"My plans changed." The young man stepped into the room, his gaze flickering over the workers, the bar, the podium — and then resting on Elena for a beat longer than was comfortable. "I need to discuss something with you. Privately."

"I'm in the middle of a meeting."

"It can wait."

"It can't." Sebastian's voice stayed pleasant, but there was an edge beneath it now. "Elena, this is Alaric Orleth. Alaric, this is Elena Rossi. She's curating the auction."

Alaric's eyes moved to her again at the mention of her name, and he offered a small, precise nod. "Miss Rossi."

"Mr. Orleth." She kept her voice even. "A pleasure. Are you related to Lucien?"

“Yes, he is my younger brother, and the pleasure is mine." He didn't sound like he meant it, but he didn't sound like he was lying either. He was just a man going through the motions of politeness, checking a box before moving on to what mattered. "Sebastian — the matter I mentioned. It's urgent."

"And I told you. I work with Thorn, not the Orleths, boy. You take it up with him."

The word boy landed like a slap. Alaric's jaw tightened, the only crack in his composure. "My father—"

"Your father and I have an understanding. You and I don't." Sebastian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Rossi and I have work to do."

Alaric stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching like a wire about to snap. Then he inclined his head, a millimeter of concession, and turned to the girl beside him. "Vexley. We're leaving."

Veya stepped forward, and Elena saw her fully for the first time — the sharpness in her eyes, the way she moved like she was already planning her exit route. Elena opened her mouth before she could stop herself.

“You're—Veya.” The name slipped out before Elena could stop it. “Veya Vexley.”

Veya's head snapped toward her, her eyes narrowing. She studied Elena for a moment, then something shifted in her expression.

“Wait.” Her gaze flicked over Elena. “You're the lady from the gala.”

Elena's stomach tightened.

“The one with the Thorn guy,” Veya added, as if that was all the identification she needed.

“Yes.” Elena forced a small smile. “That was me.”

Veya gave a short nod, apparently satisfied. “Right. I remember you now.”

“I'm Elena Rossi.”

"Right. Elena." Veya's eyes flicked to Sebastian, then back to her, and something passed through them — a flicker of recognition, or wariness, or both. "Good luck with the auction."

"Thank you."

Alaric was already moving toward the door, and Veya followed without another word, her boots silent on the thick carpet. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room seemed to exhale.

Sebastian let out a low breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well. That was pleasant.”

“Who was that?” Elena asked, keeping her tone light, though the name was familiar—Orleth. She knew he must be one of Liam's cousins. Part of the family Amara’s journal had mentioned, though she wasn’t entirely sure she had the details right.

“Alaric Orleth. Eldest son of Dorian Orleth, the most powerful man in the north.” Sebastian's voice had lost its warmth. “He's been trying to get me to partner with his father for months. I've told him no every time. He doesn't seem to hear it.”

Elena glanced toward the entrance where Alaric had disappeared. Liam had mentioned his cousins before, but she'd never expected to meet one here. Especially not in a place like this.

"He mentioned Thorn."

"Liam has a history with the Orleths. A complicated one." Sebastian shook his head. "It's not something I want to get into tonight. Come — let's finish going over the lots before the clients arrive."

Elena nodded; she wanted more information, but her mind was already shifting elsewhere. Veya Vexley. She must be the name from the notebook. But she was here, in this building, attached to Alaric Orleth like a shadow.

And she had no idea who Elena was. At least, Elena didn't think she did. But the way she'd looked at her—sharp, assessing, as if committing every detail of Elena's face to memory—had felt deliberate. Like Veya was taking note of her for later.

Sebastian was talking, pointing at a lot on her notes, and Elena forced herself to focus. She couldn't afford to be distracted. Not now. Not with everything on the line here.

As the evening wore on, the first of the auction's private clients began arriving for their private pre-look at the lots. They moved through the room in small groups, champagne in hand, studying the pieces beneath the gallery lights before the auction officially opened the following night. Elena kept one eye on the door as she guided them from work to work, answering questions and quietly taking note of which pieces held their attention.

Some high-level clients came and went in waves—collectors with soft hands and harder eyes, gallery owners who spoke in percentages, and seasoned bidders who seemed to judge a painting before they'd even finished their first glass of champagne. One woman in a red dress lingered over three lots, asking Elena detailed questions about each before declaring she intended to bid on all three. She even invited Elena to dinner afterward.

Elena smiled through it all, shook hands, remembered names, and steered conversations toward the art and away from anything that might reveal how little she actually knew about the room she was standing in. By the time the last private viewing ended and the workers began preparing the gallery for the next day, her feet ached and her jaw hurt from smiling.

At the end of the night, Victor was where she'd left him, near the entrance, his back against the wall and his eyes moving over the thinning crowd with the patience of a man who'd learned long ago that nothing interesting ever happened quickly. He straightened when she approached, and she caught the way his gaze swept over her once — checking for damage, she realized. Checking that she was still in one piece.

"You survived," he said.

"I shook more hands than I have in my entire life."

"That's the job." He fell into step beside her as she headed for the door. "The auction's tomorrow. You should get some sleep."

"I have notes to review."

"You've been reviewing notes for two days. They're not going anywhere."

She wanted to argue, but the truth was that her eyes were burning and her thoughts had started to blur at the edges. She let him walk her out into the cool night air, the neon from the club bleeding red across the wet pavement, and she was almost to the car when she stopped.

"Victor." She turned to face him. "I met a girl tonight. Veya Vexley. Do you know her?"

Something flickered across his face — too fast to read, but there. A pause that lasted a beat too long before he shook his head.

"Name doesn't ring a bell."

"She was with Alaric Orleth."

"I know who Orleth is." His voice was carefully flat. "Why do you care about some girl?"

Elena hesitated. The name in Liam's notebook. The shipping route that ended here. The missing Eros shipment that had been logged for the Velvet Rope and never arrived. She couldn't tell Victor any of that — not yet, maybe not ever.

"She seemed familiar," she said instead. "I thought maybe I'd seen her at the gala."

"I wasn't at the gala." He opened the car door for her. "Get in. You're tired."

She got in, and the drive back to the hotel was quiet, the city sliding past in smears of light and shadow. Victor pulled up to the curb two blocks from the Velvet Rope, a modest hotel with a brass awning and a doorman who straightened when he saw the car. He walked her to the lobby, checked the elevator before she got in, and handed her the room key with a look that said he'd be sleeping with one eye open.

"I'll be here at eight," he said. "Don't go anywhere between now and then."

"I won’t."

The elevator doors slid shut on his face, and Elena rode up to the fourth floor alone, the hum of the machinery filling her ears. The room was small but clean — a king bed with white linens, a desk by the window, a minibar she didn't touch. She set her bag on the chair, kicked off her heels, and stood at the window for a long moment, looking out at the city below.