Page 23 of Carry Your Debt

Otherwise, we’ll never get our answers.

The blond-haired man must’ve greeted her because her crimson-framed mouth parts.

A single word.

Midas.

Midas?

Oh.

Oh fuck.

When she was verbally sparring with Monelli and Reynolds in the alleyway, she’d mentioned both the North and the Arbiter. It was painfully obvious that not only did she already know about this world, she was well acquainted with it.And with that level of confidence, perhaps even more than we were—considering we’d only been initiated a few months before.

But this here? This was more than simply knowing aboutHospitiumand treaties.

This was something else entirely.

“Did she just call him what I think she did?” Tristan breathes. He’s not as practiced at reading lips as I am, but the way she drew his name out, not even a novice would’ve missed it.

“Midas,” I confirm, my voice sounding oddly thin to my ears. Like some of the oxygen in the room has just been sucked out.

It certainly feels like it.

“How—did she just—a fuckingking of the fucking Underworld—?” he manages to sputter out after a few ragged breaths.His chest heaves while my own fingers dig harshly for purchase on the cold stone before me. He never could handle not knowing which of a deck’s cards were already in play. And here she stands before him, holding onto her full hand.

Possibly even with a trick card or two still hidden up her sleeve.

I wait quietly as he struggles through a spectrum of emotions:shock, anger, frustration, before landing ondeterminationand forcibly gathering up the broken shards of his composure.

He turns then, catching my wide gaze, therealunspoken question hanging in the air between us.

The one that’s been dogging us all since her unexpected return to Rox City.

Who the fuck isthisSabine Winters?

Midas.Sabine. Alessi.

I squeeze my lids tight, needing a moment while my equilibrium finishes righting itself.

Fuck.

Connection.What’s the connection here? There has to be one. Why else would both Alessi’s bulldogsandone of the highest-ranking men of the Underworld be circling her like well-dressed birds of prey?

Atlas has fallen silent beside me. He’d already been skirting the edges of his control, having endured the dozen or so pat-downs needed just to get inside. I can see the minute cracks in his composure now: fingertips trembling against the stone, brows pulling down as he absorbs each detail of the confusing scene playing out before us.

Soft ripples creeping across the surface of an otherwise quiet lake.

While those waters are often dark and murky, I’ve always found comfort in knowing how deep that particular lake bed goes. In fact, I could really use some of that quiet intensity of his now, could use it to smooth over this open, jagged sensation tearing up my chest. As it is, it takes me several shaky breathsjust to clear the obnoxious fucking ringing of my world tipping on its axis.

When I swallow, my throat feels like sandpaper.

Christ.

“I can’t hear anything, we have to get closer,” I rasp, but I’m already up and leaving the statue’s meager cover. I trust Atlas will be right behind me, despite how lost in his head he looks right now. But it’s not until we’re across the gap in the crowd, and almost close enough to reach out and touch one of the world’s most powerful men, that I’m finally able to hear their conversation above the rest of the party.

We still can’t see his face properly from this angle, but I can tell from his profile that—unlike the rest of the partygoers—he’s not wearing any type of disguise. At all.

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