Page 21 of Lord of the Dark

And not least of all, it was this untamed energy that fed mymounting dissatisfaction with Carter. With him, I had to leash it, lock it away, deny myself—because he could never handle it. Because no one in my world could. They only knew the polished version of Fiona Robertson. The one who functioned. The woman at Carter's side: refined, clever, successful—but never too much, never unpredictable. Something festered inside me, something that couldn't be suppressed much longer. And with each day, it grew harder to maintain the stifling facade.

I stepped back and slid open the top drawer of my dresser. Folded carefully on a silk cloth lay a slim black nylon sheath, waiting. I reached for it, unfolded it with care, and let my fingers glide over the sharp black blade nested within—my Gerber Ghoststrike. I didn't carry it daily, but when I was alone, it lent me a sense of security. With practiced motions, I secured the holster to my right thigh, ensuring it sat snug without pinching or slipping, adjusting the angle of the grip for optimal access. Carter knew I owned it. But not that I carried it. And certainly not how steady my hand was with it.

I met my own gaze in the mirror and smiled—sweet with anticipation.

The night was a single, shimmering promise, heavy with heat and anticipation, as we entered Christian Delany’s estate. Right at the entrance, where broad, gold-framed fire bowls flanked the stone steps, it was clear: this was no ordinary party. This was a production—an intoxication of light, music, and excess. I straightened my shoulders, felt the silken dress against my body and the gentle pressure of the knife secured in my thigh holster.

A cool breath of night air grazed my skin as I let my gaze glide over the dark walls of the estate. The tall, ivy-covered stone walls shielded prying eyes, as if this were a secret temple for those who knew no rules—or needed none.

Before we even reached the final steps, my phone vibrated. I pulled it from my clutch.

A new message. Sender: Unknown.

"Let me guess—you picked the dress for me."

My heart skipped a beat. The words glared sharply against the black of the screen, but it wasn’t the text that made me pause—it was the feeling it ignited in me.

Seen. Before I had even properly arrived.

I lifted my head, let my gaze slowly slide over the façade, over windows, balconies, shadows—searching. He was here. Somewhere. Maybe above me. Maybe right in front of me. Maybe closer than I wanted.

A second vibration.

"You won’t find me. I’ll find you—when I want to."

My thumb hovered over the screen, but I didn’t respond. What could I have even said? That he took my breath away without me even seeing him? That two lines alone were enough to make my knees weak and my mind useless? My heart was beating too fast, my breath too shallow. I slid the phone back into my clutch as if I could regain control over my insides that way. A waiter handed me a glass of champagne, which I nearly took without looking. The cool stem in my hand was the only thing keeping me from completely losing my composure at that moment.

"Wow," Rachel murmured beside me, pausing for a moment. Her green eyes widened as she took in the scene before us.

I followed her gaze.

The heart of the estate was the sprawling pool area, which nestled into the architecture like a dark, liquid surface. Above it floated a glass platform—a dance floor of pure light that flickered with every step of the guests dancing beneath it.

Four enormous cages stood along the pool, each illuminated by flames, as if they were altars for the gods of the night. Inside them, bodies moved—fluid, almost predatory. The dancers, clad in tight leather outfits, swung around the poles, letting their muscles flash under the flickering play of light. Their dancewasn’t just expression—it was pure seduction. A display of power and surrender, of lust and dominance, so blatant that I instinctively held my breath. Goosebumps raced down my spine. Not from the heat of the flames or the bass vibrating through the ground—but because of him. Because of the message still burning behind my eyelids.

Tom cleared his throat. "Is that...?"

Rachel laughed softly. "Definitely not on the invitation. Think we’ve stepped into a movie?"

Their voices pulled me back, but I couldn’t answer. My gaze was trapped in the scene, my heart clenched tight by a phantom that felt closer to me than any real person in that moment.

"I thought I was going to a vaguely professional party," Tom muttered skeptically. "Not the goddamn garden of lust."

I felt the floor vibrate beneath my heels, the air crackling as if electrified. Everything was sensual. Excessive. A game where innocence had no place. I took a sip of the cool, sparkling champagne. And as the bubbles burst on my tongue, I made a decision: whatever this night would bring—I wanted to feel it. Not overthink it. Not question it. Just live it. Everything that had held me back—Carter, doubt, control—slipped away like a dress that had grown too tight.

Grinning, I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and held it out to Tom. "Oh, Tom, don’t be so uptight. What’s wrong with a little entertainment?"

He shook his head, took a deep swig, and eyed the dancers with a mix of fascination and unease.

Then came—no, appeared—the host.

Christian Delany.

He materialized suddenly among the crowd, as if he'd noticed us long ago and had now decided to grace us with his presence. Tall, lean, with a toothpaste-commercial smile that was as captivating as it was calculated. His light linen suitfit impeccably, yet made him look like a nouveau-riche snob. Delany seemed determined to embody every cliché. The leather of his shoes had once belonged to a crocodile that now—instead of gliding through the Everglades—slid across the party floor on his bare feet.

"My dearest guests," he said in a tone dripping with feigned warmth, arms spread wide. "I'm delighted you found your way here."

Rachel stepped forward, mirroring his smile. "Delany, you certainly know how to put on a show."

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