chapter 90
Chapter 90
The club pulsed like a living thing.
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Bass rolled through the air in thick waves, vibrating through glass, bone, and breath. Neon lights cut through the darkness in sharp streaks of violet and gold, flashing over bodies pressed together on the dance floor. Laughter spilled freely, reckless and loud, the kind born from expensive liquor and the belief that nothing outside these walls mattered.
Smith leaned back in a private booth on the upper level, one arm draped casually over the leather seat, a glass of amber liquid resting loosely in his hand. His jacket was discarded beside him, sleeves of his shirt rolled up just enough to look relaxed but not careless. Around him, his disciples were scattered–some dancing, some drinking, all pretending this was nothing more than a night of indulgence.
And for a moment, it was.
Smith tilted his glass, watching the ice melt slowly as he took a measured sip. He allowed himself the rare luxury of enjoyment. The duel, the elders, the rings, Adrian Cole–all of it was temporarily pushed aside by noise and movement and distraction.
Then she walked up to him.
She moved with ease, not hurried, not hesitant. The kind of confidence that didn’t demand attention but drew it anyway. She wore a fitted black dress, simple in design yet impossible to ignore, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Her eyes met Smith’s without apology as she stopped in front of the booth.
“Mind if I sit?” she asked, her voice smooth, carrying easily over the music.
Smith’s gaze swept over her–not leering, not dismissive, but assessing. He noticed the way she stood, balanced and grounded despite the heels. The subtle awareness in her eyes. The calm beneath the glamour.
“Go ahead,” he replied, gesturing to the empty space beside him.
She slid into the booth, crossing her legs effortlessly. Up close, she smelled faintly of jasmine and something sharper beneath it -metal, perhaps, or ozone. Not a common scent.
They exchanged a few polite words, the kind strangers shared in places like this. Where are you from. First time here. The music’s too loud, isn’t it?
Smith answered easily, even smiled. Outwardly, nothing was amiss.
Then his bracelet vibrated.
Once.
Twice,
A sharp, precise pulse against his wrist that cut through the haze of music and alcohol like a blade.
Smith froze internally,
The bracelet was no ordinary accessory. It was a sealed conduit, bound with a pavilion mark only the elders and their chosen could activate. It hadn’t reacted once since he arrived in the city.
Until now.
His gaze flicked down casually, as though checking the time, but his breath slowed, his senses sharpening instantly. The signal pattern was unmistakable.
The envoy had arrived.
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Smith’s eyes lifted slowly, settling on the woman beside him.
Her smile hadn’t changed. Her posture remained relaxed. But now, knowing what he knew, everything about her felt different. The way her fingers rested lightly on her knee. The faint stillness beneath her movements, like a predator at rest.
So this is her, he thought.
The Elders Pavilion hadn’t exaggerated.
He tested the connection instinctively, extending a thread of consciousness toward her, subtle and controlled. Normally, such a probe would be imperceptible, a whisper brushing against another’s awareness.
It met resistance.
Not forceful. Not hostile.
Just… nothing.
Like reaching into mist and finding it absorb everything.
Smith’s expression didn’t change, but inwardly, his interest deepened. That alone was impressive. The elders hadn’t said she would be shielded this thoroughly.
“Enjoying the night?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, watching him with eyes that seemed a little too observant for casual
conversation.
“Very much,” Smith replied smoothly. “It’s rare to find a place that knows how to entertain properly.”
She laughed softly. “I thought the same. Though sometimes the most interesting things happen away from the dance floor.”
Before he could respond, she rose from the booth. “I’m going to get a drink. Want one?”
Smith nodded. “Surprise me.”
She walked away, disappearing into the shifting crowd.
Only then did Smith lift his wrist fully, activating the bracelet’s secondary interface beneath the illusion layer. A faint sigil flared briefly before fading again.
He pulled out his phone and stood, moving toward the balcony where the music softened into a distant thrum. The city lights glittered below, oblivious.
He dialed a number he hadn’t used in months.
The call connected almost immediately.
“Mia,” Smith said quietly.
“Smith,” came the calm reply from the other end. “I assume you felt it.”
“I did,” he said. “She’s here.”
A brief pause followed. “Then you’ve made contact.”
“Yes. By chance, as instructed,” he replied, leaning against the railing. “But I need confirmation. Details”
Mia exhaled softly. “Her name is Liora. No public record worth mentioning. Background was scrubbed years ago. She was trained within the Pavilion’s shadow sect–raised, not recruited.”
Smith’s fingers tightened slightly around the phone. “Abilities?”
“High adaptability. Exceptional concealment. Her mental defenses are… unusual. Even elders have difficulty reading her unless
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she allows it.”
“That explains the silence,” Smith muttered.
“She’s been tasked with crossing Adrian Cole’s path independently,” Mia continued. “Your role is secondary. You are not to appear connected until later.”
Smith glanced back toward the club interior, where Liora now stood at the bar, chatting easily with the bartender. “And her temperament?”
“Controlled,” Mia said. “But don’t mistake that for softness. She follows orders, not impulses.”
“Good,” Smith replied. “That makes things easier.”
“And harder,” Mia added quietly. “Be careful. The elders chose her for a reason.”
The call ended.
Smith slid the phone back into his pocket, his mind already reorganizing priorities. So the Pavilion had decided on subtlety. No forced alliances. No direct probes. Just coincidence layered over coincidence until trust formed naturally.
A clever move.
He returned to the booth just as Liora came back, placing a fresh drink in front of him.
“Something strong,” she said. “You looked like you could handle it.”
He chuckled lightly. “You’re not wrong.”
They drank together, conversation flowing more freely now. She spoke about traveling, about cities that never slept and people who never stayed. Smith listened, offering fragments of truth mixed with carefully crafted omissions.
Around them, the night deepened.
Time slipped.
Eventually, Smith leaned slightly toward his disciples, who had subtly repositioned closer. “It’s time,” he said quietly. “We
have work to do.”
They straightened instantly, the shift in their demeanor nearly imperceptible to anyone else. Drinks were finished. Bills settled. Jackets reclaimed.
Liora watched with mild curiosity. “Leaving already?”
“For now,” Smith said. “Business calls.”
She smiled. “It always does.”
As they headed for the exit, Smith felt it clearly now–the sense of a new thread weaving itself into his path. One sanctioned by the elders, yes, but unpredictable in its outcome.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
