Page 156 of Fractured Allegiance
Solstice.
Not a briefing. A performance.
That means masks.
I don’t reply. Just stand and grab my coat.
She’ll be there.
And I’ll have to keep a straight face while Drazen presses his hand into her waist like she belongs to him.
But by the time the night’s over, I’ll remind her she doesn’t.
Chapter 17 – Lydia - Velvet Rope
The room smells like crushed velvet and spilt champagne. That’s the first thing I notice.
The second is Drazen’s hand on the small of my back.
His touch hovers more than it holds. Even still, it’s a leaden weight. It’s a pointed gesture, like he wants everyone to think he owns the space between us, even if he hasn’t claimed it yet.
The Solstice Club is too upscale to be this dirty, but that’s the point. White marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows rimmed with gold, sunlight streaming in like a lie. The top floor is reserved for private events, exactly the kind Drazen likes: masked with civility, rotted underneath.
There are six of them seated at the table. Foreign accents. Tailored suits. One of them has a scar running down the right side of his throat, the kind you don’t get unless someone really wanted to send a message.
I don’t sit. Drazen doesn’t offer me a chair.
Instead, he hooks two fingers in the waistband of my skirt and tugs me down—right onto his lap. Like a prop. Like I’m the trophy he gets for playing host to this cartel of gentlemen with blood under their fingernails.
I feel my spine lock, but I don’t move.
I won’t give him that.
One of them smirks. Another lifts a glass. “She’s the one you mentioned?”
Drazen hums deep in his chest. His fingers slide lower across my thigh. “She’s everything I didn’t say.”
They laugh. I don't.
I keep my expression carved from something they can't touch.
Across the room, posted near the exit like a shadow with a pulse, is Silas. Drazen's arrangement—security for meetings like this. He's supposed to stand there. Watch the door. Watch the guests. Not move unless there's a threat.
But his eyes aren't on the door.
They're on me.
Laser-focused, searing holes through my skin in a way that makes my pulse stumble. That heat isn't the lust the rest of these dogs pant with. It's different with him. Dangerous in a way I can't name.
I try not to shift under Drazen's hand, but I can feel the line being drawn in the space between us. Me and Silas. The tension isn't visible, yet it's so prevalent I'm surprised no one else notices.
“Drinks,” Drazen says, not to me, but loud enough for everyone to know who he’s speaking to. “Go on.”
I rise without speaking. On autopilot, I pick up the decanter, the tray of glasses. Walk the perimeter like I was born to serve. One of the men lifts his eyes to my chest, lingers there. I pour the scotch with hands that don’t shake.
They don’t get to see me break.
They can watch me pour, watch me obey, watch me play the part, because I’ve learned how to make obedience look like power.
