Page 101 of No Mistakes
“Christ, Mandy,” Flynn mutters in my ear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“She saved her,” Axel snaps back. “Focus. We adapt.”
On stage, the girl is ushered away, her eyes flicking back to me one last time before she disappears behind the curtain. She was seconds away from being lost, and now she isn’t. Because of me.
“Stay sharp,” Axel warns, his tone firm. “Winning her means nothing if we can’t get her out of here alive.”
The host steps down, leaving his podium for the first time since the auction started, his polished shoes whispering over the carpet until he’s in front of me. He leans down, his mask reflecting my own wide-eyed stare back at me. “Interesting choice.” His gloved fingers, tracing along the numbers on my paddle. “Tell me, sweetheart, who sent you?”
My chest seizes, air locking in my lungs. I force my face back, chin high, exactly as Axel drilled into me, but my pulse hammers too fast, betraying me.
Flynn’s voice rips through the earpiece. “Mandy? What the fuck is going on? Talk to us.”
I can’t. Not with the host’s eyes boring into me through his mask.
Axel’s voice cuts in, “Don’t respond. We’re coming.”
The host tilts his head, studying me like a cat does a cornered mouse. “You see, you look a lot different from the Clara Westonwe know. Did she send you?” His gloved fingers trail down my arm as the crowd leans forward, hungry for a show. He moves closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Do you know what happens to liars in this room?”
Nausea claws its way up my throat, and I grip the chair arms until my nails bite into the wood. He straightens suddenly, turning toward the crowd.
“It seems that we have a tra-”
The ballroom doors slam open, causing the chandeliers to rattle overhead. Gasps ripple through the crowd as five figures stalk into the room.
Each one wears a mask that gleams under the golden lights, unnerving grins frozen into hard plastic. Red. Blue. Purple. Green. Yellow.
Each colour burns like a warning.
I watch as the Ashford Brothers move as one, broad shoulders squared, guns raised, every step a promise of violence. The host falters mid-word, his confidence shattering as his gaze locks onto them.
Ant takes the lead, his purple mask capturing everyone’s attention. Carter passes him something, and a crack echoes around the room.
A gunshot tears through the silence. The host jerks, blood spilling across his chest, before he crumples to the floor next to me like a marionette with its strings cut.
For a second, no one moves.
And then chaos erupts. Screams rip through the air, chairs topple as people stumble over one another in a desperate rush to the doors. Crystal glasses shatter, the chandelier trembles overhead, and still, the brothers don’t flinch.
They advance. Each step measured, deliberate, cutting through the frenzy with an aura that demands the room bendaround them. They spread out, blocking off every exit, predators corralling prey.
My heart slams against my ribs as my gaze flicks from red to blue to green-until it lands on purple.
The purple mask is already fixed on me. Unshakable. Watching me through the mayhem like I’m the only person in the room. Relief crashes into me so hard my knees almost buckle.
My saviour. My ruin. My Ant.
CHAPTER 42
ANT
I find Mandy immediately,my eyes roaming her body from a distance, checking to see if she is harmed. Relief floods my body as she mouths that she’s fine before darting across the room, towards the stage.
The room erupts into screams as people scatter in every direction. Glass shatters as people throw their drinks, trying their best to escape. Chairs topple over, bodies crash into each other as panic floods the space like wildfire.
My brothers split instantly, the way we always do, as we show controlled destruction. Our masks moving through the room efficiency. Axel moves first, a blade flashing in his hand, he strikes fast, clean, merciless as he moves around the room. Gunnar follows with brute force, a human wrecking ball slamming men into walls, tables, whatever is closest. The sound of bones cracking under his fist is drowned only by the roar of the crowd.
Carter is precise, cold. Every movement measured, every strike calculated. A bullet to the knee. A knife to the throat. No wasted motion as he dances between people.
