Chapter 4: The Mark of a Traitor.
470 Words
The ballroom was a sea of glittering silk and sharp uniforms, but to Mirana, it felt like a battlefield. Every flash of her camera was a calculated move. William stayed at her side like a dark shadow, his hand never leaving her waist, his touch a constant reminder of who she belonged to tonight.
"There," William whispered, his voice barely audible over the orchestra. "The man in the charcoal suit near the balcony. Minister Vane. He has the briefcase."
Mirana felt her pulse quicken. "I need to get closer. The 'mark' won't show from this distance."
"Be careful, Mirana," William growled, his grip tightening for a second before he let her go. "If you fail, I can’t protect you in front of these people."
She slipped through the crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs. She raised her camera, pretending to capture the architecture of the ceiling. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm.
"A beautiful girl like you shouldn't be wandering alone," a smooth, predatory voice said. It was Minister Vane. He looked at her with a gaze that made Mirana’s skin crawl.
"I’m just... capturing the evening, sir," Mirana stammered, trying to angle her lens toward the leather briefcase at his feet.
"Perhaps you can capture something more private?" Vane leaned in, his hand sliding down to her wrist.
Before Mirana could react, a wall of black wool stepped between them. William was there, his expression colder than the winter outside. He didn't say a word, but the sheer aura of violence radiating from him made the Minister take a step back.
"Captain William," Vane chuckled nervously. "I was just admiring your... assistant."
"She is not for admiration, Minister," William said, his voice like a sharpening blade. "She is working. And I suggest you do the same. The Protocol doesn't favor those who waste time."
As Vane scurried away, William turned to Mirana. He didn't check if she was okay; instead, he pinned her against a marble pillar, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and something that looked dangerously like possessiveness.
"Did you get it?" he demanded, his face inches from hers.
"I... I think so," Mirana whispered, her breath hitching as she showed him the small screen of her camera. There, clearly visible on the briefcase, was a faint, glowing seal—the mark of the underground resistance.
William looked at the photo, then back at her. For a moment, the coldness in his eyes flickered. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her forehead in a gesture that wasn't an order, but a promise.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now, let’s get out of here before I decide to burn this place down for the way he looked at you."
- Writer
