Page 14 of Inside the Wicked

I resent it.

“Arrogance is everything to people like Silas,” Kenna says. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“Great confidence boost,” I mutter.

I’m trying to focus on my breathing so I won’t turn into a sweating, flustering mess. Silas is just another arrogant man with far too much money. I’ve dealt with his kind before.

“You’ll be going in first. I’ll have eyes on you, and I’ll be in the car when it’s over.”

My head snaps to her with my spike of adrenaline. “You won’t be with me?”

She shakes her head and my confidence wilts.

“Alistair doesn’t want to risk diverting his attention.”

“What will you be doing?”

“What I do best, just like you. If we’re lucky.”

I hope that doesn’t mean killing inside. Spying? I don’t know how she’s going to manage it in a bustling establishment.

“Go—we can’t linger. Everything you do and say will be analyzed.”

I nod, but I’m so awash with dizziness now it’s time to perform that the cool summer air does nothing to help me breathe when I step out of the car.

The doors are guarded by two giant men. They don’t speak, and that’s an intimidation in itself. I don’t give away my anxiety as one reaches into his coat and produces a finger scanner. I place my thumb on it, and after a second, it beeps and the man takes it back, reading what appears on the other side. Then they each take a handle, and I wonder what the fuck kind of movie I’ve stepped into with the ominous reception.

“Have a good evening, Miss Kinsley. Silas himself eagerly awaits you.”

I don’t smile at them, though it feels wrong.Arrogance is everything.I have to play like I’m above everyone, perhaps even Silas. I’m riddled with nerves with every step closer to the source of the music as my jacket is taken, my purse searched, and I step through a body scanner, which I assume is to detect concealed weapons or recording equipment.

This is a man who doesn’t take chances, and I doubt has ever given a second.

I’m escorted into the main room, which comes alive in an impressive hall. There’s a front stage at the far end and several smaller platforms with poles where women dance. It’s elegant and it gives off an air of prestige. As I continue to follow, I try to gauge the dancers who appear lost in their own world, oblivious to the eyes that drink them in. But they’re also aware of the attention, as if it’s what moves their bodies to the music with confidence. Their wears are sparkling and beautiful, some in short bodysuits and others in two-piece outfits. It isn’t the type of place sleazy men reach to grope and holler or toss and tuck bills; these patrons are awed and are in here to admire the performances.

Circular tables litter the ground level, and there’s a long bar at one side of the hall. Above, there are booths like in a theater, but in particular, one observation area spans the whole left side, and I’m led toward the stairs up to it.

I try to calm my racing pulse by listening to the music. It’s not pop or rock like I would expect to find in most clubs; there’s an element of jazz in the song playing, and I admire the saxophone all the way up the black-carpeted spiral stairs.

At the top I try not to balk at the dominant male ratio. I count at least a dozen men and only four women. There’s a smaller personal bar up here, a pool table, and several sets of sofas and armchairs facing each other for groups.

It doesn’t take me long to guess which of the wealthy men is Silas Balenheizer. I watch one of his tattooed hands bring a cigarette to his mouth, and he takes a long drag. I’ve only ever experimented with smoking if I’m drunk, but I’ve never seen someone make it lookseductive.The way he watches the smoke he blows out toward the ceiling, it’s as if all the thoughts he hadon the inhale scatter in the air before him on the exhale, and he’s oblivious to the liveliness of the night around him.

He screams power and danger, with dark hair that gives off a sheen and a few strands that flick over his forehead. Tattoos crawl up his neck, and I wonder from the few undone buttons of his black shirt if his whole chest is covered. His arms too, since so many pictures decorate his skin from his hands to where his black shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His face has an impeccable sculpture, with his angular, clean-shaven jaw. I find his eyes a deep brown as he watches the venue below and a moving light catches on them.

When they slip to me, I realize my assessment of him has taken over my thoughts, and now I’m standing right beside the sofa that hosts the two men opposite him. He gives little away in that seconds-long stare he lingers on me, but the skin around his eyes flexes in recognition.

“I never thought I’d be hosting America’s First Daughter in my club,” he says in a deep voice of ash and smoke.

“I had to see for myself why people boast their membership,” I say.

Silas merely looks at those seated opposite him, and they stand, leaving the whole sofa vacant. I understand the way he can talk without words when his gaze falls back on me and I’m compelled to take their place.

He leans forward, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “And what do you see, Miss Kinsley?”

I wonder if I’m already failing since Silas seems so unimpressed by my presence. What’s another beautiful heiress to him?

“I see a man trying prove he’s not just his father’s son.”

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