The ride back to the Blackwood estate was a world away from the tense, purposeful silence of our journey to the party. The victory was a palpable thing in the car, a warm, humming energy that settled between us. I kept replaying the scene in my mind: Marcus Volkov’s terrified bow, Seraphina’s stunned, humiliated face, Julian’s utter ruin. The small, pen-like recorder felt heavy and powerful in my clutch. It was my truth, finally weaponized.
We didn’t speak until we were back in the familiar, cavernous library, a fire crackling in the massive stone hearth. Damien poured two glasses of amber liquid—whiskey, from the scent of it—and handed one to me before sinking into one of the large leather armchairs.
I remained standing, swirling the liquid in my glass. “You knew,” I said, not as an accusation, but as a statement of fact. “You knew Marcus Volkov would show up.”
Damien took a slow sip. “I knew he would be strongly motivated to make an appearance, yes.”
