Page 29 of Avidian
Once I’m satisfied with the look, I slip on the dress, carefully smoothing the fabric over my body. The moment I stand in front of the full-length mirror, I pause. The dress feels like a second skin, every inch designed to hug my curves and make me feel exposed yet powerful at the same time.
The deep, daring red is bold—a challenge wrapped in silk. It’s the kind of color that dares someone to underestimate me while knowing they’ll regret it if they do. The single shoulder strap leaves one arm bare, framing my collarbone and neckline in a way that draws attention without screaming for it.
Sleek. Simple. And yet there’s nothing remotely modest about it.
I tilt my head, taking in the reflection staring back at me. I hardly recognize her—the woman in the mirror. Bold. Untouchable. Maybe even dangerous. She’s not me, but she’s the perfect mask for tonight.
The mask I’ll need.
At 7:15, there’s a knock at my door. Clearly, Anton is not one for punctuality. I slip on my heels, take a steadying breath, and pull the door open.
“Oh, my pretty little menace,” Orin says, his voice dripping with mockery as he strides in, uninvited, wearing a midnight-blue suit that somehow makes him look more sinister than polished. “Looking all fiery for me tonight.”
I want to hit back with something sharp and sarcastic, but I bite my tongue, forcing a tight-lipped smile instead. Orin is a walking hurricane of brute strength and sadistic tendencies, but intelligence? Not exactly his forte. He’s been working for his father for years though, which means he probably knows everything about the business—the inner workings, the deals, and, more importantly, the secrets.
Maybe tonight is my chance, an opportunity to use him. Orin has always made it clear he wants me, but I know he’d never cross that line without an invitation. He’s too afraid of the repercussions Marco would rain down on him.
The thought of touching him makes me sick to my stomach, and I’m not very experienced in the art of seduction. But I can be fucking charming when I want to be. And with Orin, it doesn’t matter what comes out of my mouth—he’ll be more focused on my cleavage than anything else.
Seeing how far I can play him tonight might be worth it.
I lean against the doorframe enough to give him something to look at without being obvious. “I hear you’re my date for this evening.”
His grin widens, his gaze predictably dipping to my neckline. “I’m here to make sure you don’t step out of line at the party. Lucky you, right?”
I flash him a small, calculated smile, already deciding how far I’m willing to push this. “Lucky me,” I echo sweetly enough to keep him hooked.
He extends an elbow to me, and I take his arm, letting him escort me through the sprawling mansion to the other side. The party is an event unto itself, occupying an entire wing. Guests move fluidly between a grand formal dining room, a library that takes my breath away, a polished bar, and a sitting room filled with men smoking cigars and swirling brandy in oversized glasses.
Orin leads me straight to the bar, but not before I catch several sets of eyes lingering on me as we pass. The dress is doing what I need it to—distracting.
Perfect.
I don’t know what I expected when I imagined Viktor’s party, but this wasn’t it. It’s much larger than I anticipated, at least fifty people milling about—maybe closer to one hundred. And the men outnumber the women significantly. I spot a few couples and small groups of women chatting quietly in corners, but the party feels overwhelmingly male, dominated by heavy laughter, low murmurs, and the clinking of glasses.
And in typical Volkov style, food and alcohol overflow in abundance. Most people can only dream of a proper meal—real meat, fresh vegetables—luxuries replaced by the genetically engineered trash they toil endlessly to afford. But here, among these people, it’s nothing more than careless excess, squandered without a second thought.
No surprises there, I guess.
The bar is stunning—crafted from dark mahogany with an antique finish that gleams under the low light. But it’s the librarythat catches my eye, its floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with gorgeously bound books. I’d kill to have a collection like that back at Marco’s. If I had a different life, I’d spend hours there, pulling volumes from the shelves and burying myself in the stories of worlds far away from this one.
But before I can linger, Orin keeps us moving, his attention already fixed on the drinks. He’s nothing if not predictable.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks Orin, his voice polite but neutral. He’s a young man, slender, with dark hair neatly combed back.
“Whiskey neat,” Orin says then glances at me. “And make something fruity for the lady.”
I shake my head quickly, offering a polite but firm smile. “No, thank you.”
The bartender hesitates, glancing between us. I’ve never been a drinker. I’ve tried it a handful of times, but it always tasted terrible, burning my throat in a way that made me wonder why anyone found it enjoyable. But that’s not the real reason I avoid it. Alcohol dulls the senses, makes you vulnerable—and I can’t afford that. Not tonight. Not ever.
“Make her the drink,” Orin barks, startling the bartender. Then, without warning, Orin wraps an arm around my back and pulls me closer to him, the move possessive and overbearing.
“You’re drinking tonight, demon,” he whispers hotly against my ear, his breath brushing my cheek like an unwanted brand.
I stiffen under his grip, every muscle tensing as I fight the urge to shove him away. His voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a quiet demand that makes my blood boil.God, if only you knew what kind of demon you were actually dealing with, Orin.
The bartender sets two drinks in front of us, mine a pink frothy concoction that looks harmless enough. I pick it up, intending to fake a sip, but Orin has other plans. His handclamps over the bottom of the glass, tipping it up and forcing me to swallow the entire thing in one go. It burns all the way down, like I remember from the last time I tried alcohol. At least this one doesn’t taste entirely horrible—bubble gum with a kick.
