The Devil's Archivist

Chapter 8

Christopher POV:

The backless red silk gown I had chosen for August clung to her curves like a second skin. It pooled at her ankles in a pool of dark crimson, leaving the long, delicate line of her spine completely bare to the cool evening air.

I stood behind her in my private suite, watching her in the mirror. She looked devastating. A queen stepping into a viper's nest.

"You're staring," she whispered, her dark eyes meeting mine in the glass.

I stepped closer, letting my shadow swallow hers. I wore my tailored tuxedo without a tie, the top two buttons undone, and secured the filigree raven mask across my face.

My hands came down onto her bare shoulders, my thumbs tracing the warm, velvet softness of her skin.

"I'm admiring my work," I purred into her ear, dipping my head until my lips grazed the sensitive spot right behind her earlobe. "You look like a queen about to claim a kingdom, August."

"Or a sacrifice walking straight into an executioner's chamber," she corrected, her voice trembling slightly, though her gaze remained steady in the mirror.

"Not while I'm breathing," I growled low. I reached forward, snapping her obsidian mask into place over her eyes. "Tonight, the Order thinks they're hosting a party to mark their next victim. They think you're my prisoner—my captive. Play the role, August. Look terrified of me. Look yielding."

"And what are you playing?"

I reached into my inner jacket pocket, sliding a thin, razor-sharp steel blade into my forearm sheath. A dark, lethal smile touched my lips.

"The villain who's about to slaughter the host."

The Blackwood Estate sat on a jagged cliff high above the crashing ocean waves. A fleet of black luxury cars lined the driveway, dropping off men in tailored suits and women dripping in diamonds—all hiding behind silver and porcelain masks.

I gripped August's elbow tightly, pulling her flush against my side as we walked through the massive double doors into the grand ballroom. High-society elite swirled around us under crystal chandeliers, classical music masking the sickly sweet smell of rose oil that hung heavily in the air.

"Keep your head up," I whispered into her dark hair, my arm tightening around her waist so hard her hips were locked to mine. "Julian Vance is on the second-floor balcony. Don't look directly at him."

"Is he the one who ordered Clara's death?" August asked, her breath catching as she played her role, looking small and captive against my broad chest.

"He signed the authorization," I growled. "Tonight, we strip him of everything."

Julian Vance stepped down the grand marble staircase wearing a gold bull mask, a crystal champagne glass held high. The crowd quieted as he welcomed the secret society to another year of wealth and legacy.

And then his eyes locked onto me and August.

"A special welcome to our Head Archivist," Julian called out, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Who has brought us a very special guest of honor for tonight's prelude."

Cold, hungry eyes shifted toward us. A hundred masked aristocrats evaluating August like prey.

I felt the violent spike of terror in her pulse, felt her lean back into my chest for protection. I tightened my grip on her waist, holding her steady, and raised my gaze to Julian with absolute, freezing coldness.

"She belongs to my private collection, Vance," I called back, my deep voice cutting through the hall like a razor. "If anyone wants a taste of the harvest... they'll have to pay my price first."

Julian smirked. "And what is your price, Archivist?"

I leaned down, my lips brushing August's ear, whispering softly: "When I drop my glass, run for the library study on the second floor. Lock the door from the inside."

I raised my champagne flute high into the air, holding Julian's gaze, and loosened my fingers.

CRASH.