HIS For The Taking

chapter 5

The orchestra shifted to a low, velvet waltz that made the chandeliers hum. Conversation thinned just enough for power to be heard without being spoken. Dimitri’s hand rested at the small of my back light, possessive, intentional. Every time he moved, the room adjusted.

“Dimitri, you finally made it.”

A man in a navy suit clasped his hand with both of his, bowing as if to a monarch.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Dimitri said, that faint not quite smile touching his mouth.

Names of companies followed. Routes. Numbers that sounded like weather reports until you listened to what they changed. Then—“Liana,” his voice touched me without turning. “This is Mr. Alexandro. He manages the southern ports.”

Alexandro’s eyes flicked over me, intrigued rather than impressed. “You always make unexpected choices.”

“That’s why I win,” Dimitri replied, and only then did his gaze slip to mine, an unreadable heat there, as if to say: play.

A toast rang out. Crystal sang; the hall quieted. An older man silver hair, steely eyes lifted his flute. “To strength,” he said, and let his pause seek us like a knife’s edge. “In business. In alliances. And in… choices.”

Polite laughter rippled. Dimitri’s glass touched mine, a soft chime that sounded like consent and defiance at once. “To strength,” he murmured, only for me.

We moved. No, he moved and the room flowed around him like tide around a stone. My task hadn’t changed watch, listen, understand but the game had tilted. I wasn’t just his shadow now. I was being measured alongside him.

At the bar, a rival I’d marked in my head by the tight line of his mouth leaned in too close. “Volkov’s wife,” he said, oily smile curving. “Charm suits your husband. Loyalty suits him more.” His gaze slid to my ring, then past me to where Dimitri spoke with a cluster of officials.

“I’ve noticed,” I said lightly, letting my lashes lower. “Men who doubt him leave with fewer doubts. And fewer options.”

His smile faltered. He retreated with a murmured excuse. One point to me.

A waiter drifted by with champagne. Another followed with oysters. The third too stiff in the shoulders, steps slightly off the orchestra’s rhythm lingered at the bar station. He wasn’t nervous. He was rehearsed. My skin prickled.

Do not trust what you see.

I set my untouched champagne on the tray as the waiter passed. The glass he lifted in its place meant for Dimitri when he returned caught the light. Barely. A breath of iridescence at the rim, there and gone. I didn’t blink.

Dimitri rejoined me, the air shifting around us like a curtain falling. “Report,” he said, voice velveted for the room but cut sharp for me.

“Minister over laughs, overpromises. The woman in emerald corrects him when he lies. Alexandro defers to you but hates that he does.” I paused, then angled my body, guiding him a step to the left as if I were seeking better light. “And your next drink is not one you should have.”

His eyes didn’t drop to the flute. They stayed on mine. “Explain.”

“The waiter who set it down—stride’s wrong for service, right hand favors the tray, left sleeve a shade darker, like it was replaced last minute. And there was a film on the rim when it caught the chandelier.” I let my fingers skim his cuff, like a wife smoothing a wrinkle. “He’s watching from ten o’clock.”

“Ten?” He didn’t look. He smiled for the couple approaching, shook a hand, said something that made them laugh. To me, softer: “What would you do?”

“Trade,” I breathed.

He gave the smallest nod. “Then do it.”

I reached for the flute, turned, and with the idle elegance of boredom passed it to the rival who’d crowded me at the bar. “You looked like you needed it,” I said, smiling, and before his surprise could register, a different waiter,the waiter glided in to replace the glass as if on cue. His eyes flicked to see who drank.

The rival lifted it. Paused at the rim, catching the same shimmer I had. He set it down, suddenly pale. Not poison. Not here. A sedative? A marker? A message?

Dimitri’s hand found my waist again, claiming and shielding. “Walk,” he murmured, steering us toward the dance floor that had opened like a stage.

We stepped into the waltz, his palm warm through the silk. The choreography pulled us through a slow circle of chandeliers and polished eyes. “You moved him,” he said, barely moving his lips. “You moved me.”

“And the waiter?” I asked.

“Already gone,” he said. “Which is the point. Some men are sent to hurt. Some are sent to make you look at them while something else moves.”

“Diversion,” I said.

“Mm.” He turned me, the room bending. “Who else?”

“Silver hair at the head table,toasting strength. Everyone watches him watching you. That’s too easy.” The music lifted; we dipped. “So the real conversation is offstage.”

“Where?”

“The gallery. Left of the orchestra. Two men slipped out after the toast and haven’t returned. One of them wears a ring with a crest,a wolf and a wheat stalk.” I felt, not saw, his interest sharpen. “It matched a sigil on your East Wing wall.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound threading under my skin. “You were not meant to remember that wall.”

I met his eyes. “You called me a player.”

“Good.” He rotated us toward the archway. “Time to play.”

We left the floor with the grace of people seeking fresh air. The gallery was quieter marble, mirrors, a line of tall windows throat-lit with the city’s reflection. Two men stood near the last window, their voices wrapped in music and glass.

“…three shipments, then the shift,” one said. “The ports are watched.”

“Not if Viktor moves his proxy,” the other replied. “Volkov will chase the shadow he expects.”

Viktor.

My fingers tightened on Dimitri’s sleeve. A reflection in the window caught my eye,a face on the far terrace beyond the glass. Tall. Dark coat. Features that aligned with the photograph burned into my skull. Ivan Viktor.

The note in my pocket seared against my skin: Do not trust what you see.

The terrace door stood slightly ajar, the winter air threading in. I didn’t move. I watched. The man’s posture was correct; the angle of the jaw, the set of the shoulders. But his watch sat on the wrong wrist, band too new. And when he turned, he favored a knee that on the photo had scar tissue that would have made him shift the other way.

“Decoy,” I whispered.

Dimitri didn’t ask how I knew. “He wants a chase.”

The two men at the window noticed us. Conversation ceased; smiles appeared as if conjured. “Mr. Volkov,” one said smoothly, tipping his head. “You honor us.”

“With my wife,” Dimitri returned, and the word slid over the marble like a knife laid on a table. He’d never said it aloud in a room like this. Heads turned, just far enough.

The men offered pleasantries. They left quickly.

Dimitri’s eyes cut to the terrace. “You want to see how deep this game goes?” he asked me.

“I’m already in it,” I said.

He opened the door. Cold air kissed my skin. We stepped out into muted city noise and the soft hiss of the fountain below. The man on the terrace didn’t turn. He stood at the railing like a painting placed for us.

“Beautiful night,” Dimitri called conversationally.

The man smiled at the darkness. “Every night is, if you don’t look too closely.”

Not Viktor’s cadence. Not his accent. Too clean.

I drifted a half-step to the side, sighting the nearest exit, the nearest guard, the angle of the cameras mounted like polite jewelry. “If you’re a message,” I said, “deliver it.”

He turned. Up close, the flaws were obvious. A manufactured resemblance; a surgeon’s eagerness. He bowed, too low. “From Mr. Viktor,” he said. “A courtesy.”

“And what courtesies does a ghost send?” Dimitri asked.

“A reminder.” The man’s eyes flicked to me. “Your house isn’t as sealed as you think. And your wife” his smile ticked, aimed at me like a dart “should be more careful about what she picks up.”

The photograph in my room. The envelope with my initials. Something hot and cold slid through me.

Dimitri’s jaw flexed, just once. “You walked into my host’s home to tell me my locks are soft?”

“Not walked.” The man’s smile sharpened. “Invited.”

A whistle of air. Movement at the far end of the terrace two of the host’s security appeared, not ours, faces composed. The decoy tipped his head, a man completing a contract. “Consider this a favor,” he said, and then he stepped backward onto the ledge, swung to a maintenance ladder hidden by stonework, and vanished into shadow.

“Do I follow?” I breathed.

“No.” Dimitri’s hand closed around mine solid, certain. “We don’t run at bait.”

Inside, the music swelled as if nothing had changed. But everything had.

We reentered the gallery. The silver-haired host arrived with an apology already on his lips, flanked by his own men. “Unfortunate,” he said, sorrow polished smooth. “A trespasser. We’re addressing it.”

Dimitri’s smile was a blade in velvet. “Of course you are.” He turned to me. “We’re leaving.”

We didn’t hurry. We never hurry. Down the staircase flashbulbs, polite murmurs, the city’s breath waiting beyond the doors. Our car slid forward, black and quiet. The convoy formed around us like a second skin.

Only when the estate lights fell away did he speak. “Say it.”

“It wasn’t Viktor,” I said. “He wants you thinking about the ports while he moves something inland. He wants me rattled. And he wants you to see that someone in that room opened a door for him.”

“Which someone?”

“The one who toasted strength,” I said, surprising myself. “No,someone who wants him blamed. The man who grinned when you called me your wife.”

Dimitri went silent. Then, softly, “You noticed that.”

“I notice everything that looks like a hand on your throat.” Heat crept up my neck at my own audacity. But it was true.

The car’s interior felt smaller, warmer. The city smudged by. “You traded a glass meant to mark me,” he said. “You read a decoy through a window. And you gave me the gallery before I asked.”

“I played,” I said.

“You did.” He reached into his jacket and placed something in my palm. Cool metal. A slim band, matte black, with a hidden seam. “Wear it. It opens what you need to open. West Wing and when I say East.”

I looked up. “You’re giving me access