Page 20 of Carry Your Debt

“Midas.”

By the timewe clear the final entry checkpoint, I’ve been touched by no fewer than fourteen people.

Sweat dots my upper lip, my heart beating out a frantic tattoo against my sternum. The boning in the brocade vest I spent months so carefully tailoring now feels like a prison in its intricate corsetry.

Aside from a single encrypted message insisting on our presence—and that our masks tonight be gold—it’s been total radio silence from this supposed benefactor of ours.

Ever since the incident at the Guardhouse check-in.

Hedidcome through with a chartered flight for the four of us, but all this cloak and dagger is doing is only further convincing me that we’re little more than pawns in some tyrant’s endgame.

Tristan, on the other hand, loves extolling the humble pawn. The unrelenting strategist banks on the fact most players continuously underestimate its net worth—forgetting all about the only piece on the board able to be promoted above its original station.

Forgetting that in the right hands, a pawn could easily be the difference between a win and a loss.

Personally, I don’t know if I quite agree with putting that much faith in a lowly foot soldier.What Idoknow is that it doesn’t make being here tonight any less dangerous. No one can argue that we’re not completely out of our element.

And what’s worse—she’shere.

Somewhere.

I’m not exactly sure if this nauseous grip on my stomach is dread…or anticipation.

Callum’s hand curls protectively over my shoulder, reading me like a book. Normally, that familiar touch of his would come as a welcome one, grounding me before the anxiety takes over and the edges of my vision white out. Right now, however, it’s all I can do not to flinch.

“How many candles you think are in that big ass chandelier right there?” comes his deep baritone from my right. I feel his fingers flex against the fabric of my overcoat. My brow knits, but the question has my focus drifting to the vaulted ceiling against my will.

The massive, empire-style lighting all look to span at least twelve feet each. Each one contains hundreds of crystal bulbs arranged in rising patterns of bronze sconces. I’m about to begin mapping out the bottom tier’s generous circumference when I’m gently tugged away. It’s Callum again. He’s hovering there with a pinched expression as his gaze roams over my face.

“What?” I ask blankly, but he must find whatever it is he’s looking for, because some of the tension around his honey-brown eyes lessens the longer he studies me.

“Good,” he eventually grunts, turning away to scan the room we’ve just entered. I squint at the side of his head, wondering why my skin’s no longer crawling. Finally, it registers I was so distracted by Callum’s challenge that my panic attack never found its foothold.

Ever the caretaker, I already know he’s not expecting a thank you, and without another word, he uses his huge form to begin herding me toward Tristan and Lake instead.

I do my best to ignore the chattering crowd as we weave through the throng, choosing instead to focus on the figures of my brothers. The two of them have claimed a spot in the opposite corner of the atrium, not far from a large obsidian dais that was likely brought in especially for the event.

Tristan’s running his cool gaze over each of the guests nearest them.

Lake, on the other hand, looks ready to bolt, shoulders high and long fingers flicking his Zippo open and close in agitation. After he’d disappeared from the stadium yesterday, he hadn’t resurfaced again until well after midnight. He’d been cagey with the details and has stayed skirting the edge of mania ever since.

It’s honestly a miracle Tristan got him here at all—or in one piece. He’s even managed to smuggle him into a slim-fitted tuxedo jacket despite his vocal protests.

As soon as we reach the two of them, Callum immediately circles in, eyeing Lake like a dogcatcher with a net.

“It’s a masquerade, and we don’t even know what color she’s wearing,” Tristan’s explaining very calmly, like he’s talking down a skittish child. True to form, he seems completely unfazed by the fact he’s currently surrounded by some of the most dangerous people in the country. “I want answers just as badly as you do, but we need to be careful.”

My jaw tightens.

Answers are the only reason I even agreed to come tonight. I’m just afraid we’ll end up leaving empty-handed.

Or worse, walking away with even more questions than we came with.

“You two hold this position, Atlas and I will do a lap.”

Lake’s blond curls bounce dramatically as he pitches forward. “Seriously?” he scowls, face screwing up in annoyance. One of Callum’s massive hands shoots out, gripping him by the nape. The corded muscles along his neck and chest strain as he struggles to contain that crazed energy.

Our brother’s so close to the edge that it’s a wonder we can’t physically see the void rising up, ready to swallow him.

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