Page 24 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
"I won't."
"Good. Quiet now."
One hand clamps my wrists and pins them above my head. I should be furious, but relief shocks through me—relief at not carrying the weight alone, if only for a heartbeat. That admission rattles me more than the heat of his touch. His other hand finds the hem again and slides higher. Silk whispers against my skin. Cool air ghosts over where he's warmed me. He presses me into the wall with the flat of his body, and in that pressure I feel ownership and something softer braided together. I lean into him. He laughs low and pleased, certain, and the sound rolls through me.
Footsteps pass the mouth of the alcove. Music swells. He stills and I hold my breath, pulse racing. When the corridor empties, his hand returns to the task, stroking a path that sets sparks racing. He cups me through thin fabric and I bite my lip to keep in the sound that wants out.
"Open for me," he murmurs.
I shift my stance, thighs parting just enough to invite him closer. His hand moves again, slower, more deliberate, each stroke coaxing a sharper ache from me. He studies every reaction, reading the stutter of my breath, the shiver in my muscles, giving me exactly what I crave with no wasted motion. Heat climbs higher until my legs quiver, the strength in them unsteady. He holds me fast, one hand locked around my wrists, the solid press of his body pinning me in place, his control steady whilst mine slips further away.
"Look at me."
I turn my head, looking back over my shoulder. His eyes are dark and steady. There's heat there, and something that looks far too much like emotion. It undoes me more than his fingers do.
He turns me around and kisses me as his hand drives me closer to the edge, swallowing the sounds I cannot hold back. The kiss turns greedy, tangled with the knowledge that this is reckless and far too risky in the middle of a masquerade. I know I should stop, but I don't care—not as long as his hand keeps moving, each stroke pulling me tighter against him. My hips seek his touch and he hums his approval into my mouth, urging me higher.
"Now," he says, voice rough.
Release tears through me in a silent cry. I shake against the wall, clinging to him, mouth locked to his to keep from giving us away. He holds me there, carrying the weight, riding out the tremors until I sag back into his arms.
He eases my wrists down and smooths my dress with careful hands. His mouth finds my temple. "That's mine," he says, quiet and sure.
"Arrogant," I manage, breathless and wrecked.
"Accurate," he counters, gentling me with touch until I find my feet again. He takes out a handkerchief, efficient as any gentleman in a war zone, and sets me to rights. When I finally trust my knees, he lifts my chin with two fingers.
"The next time I take you to bed, I don’t want there to be any interruptions," he promises. "Tonight we work. But I needed this. You needed this."
"Don't tell me what I need," I say, but the edge has no bite. I catch his mouth in a quick, fierce kiss that tastes of defiance and need before I force myself to step back, breath ragged and body still leaning toward him even as I put space between us.
We re-arm in silence, his fingers brushing mine as he ensures my body armor is in place. My hands shake more than I’d like. “Adrenaline dump,” I mutter, half embarrassed. He just says, “Normal,” and tells me about a mission where his whole team shook the same way. Not weakness—just survival.
We step back into the glitter of the gala, masks in place and roles played to perfection. To the crowd we're nothing more than another elegant pair gliding through the music, but beneath the veneer every step is strategy. I tighten the net with subtle signals, whilst Nolan takes the perimeter with silent authority. I direct staff with a glance, intercept a server carrying a false badge, and catalogue every guest whose attention lingers too long on the display, the tension thrumming beneath the glitter.
The night unfolds like a chess match, every move a calculated risk. We watch partygoers dance and drink whilst they circle the mask, some too close, others merely passing through. We don't want to make a scene; we'll deal with smaller targets as needed. Right now we're after bigger game.
I force myself back into the rhythm of the gala, scanning doors, exits, every face that lingers too long on the display. The music plays on, but beneath it runs a taut undercurrent, as if the entire ballroom is holding its breath.
As midnight nears, the ballroom changes mood. The chatter dulls, the quartet's notes stretch too long, and nervous laughter rings thin. Overhead, the chandeliers stutter, their brilliance faltering until the glow gutters out. It isn't a gentle dimming—it's a deliberate kill of the lights.
Without warning, Saltmoor is drowned in black. Then red emergency lamps blink to life, casting the ballroom in a lurid wash that makes jewels glint like blood and masks leer like predators. A ripple of unease rolls through the crowd, silk rustling and voices rising in confused waves.
A voice breaks through my comms, not one of mine: "Tick tock, Bennett. That's a copy."
I cut through bodies to the case. Nolan at my back. My hand works the manual release, sliding glass aside. Ice floods my chest, cold and cutting. I lift the mask from its stand, its jeweled surface gleaming under the red lights.
Cold radiates from the replica like metal fresh from ice water. A trick? Or residue of something older, clinging to the gold? My skin remembers the prickle from the first time. But something is wrong beyond the obvious. The mask in my hands feels different—not just the missing flaw that marks it as a forgery, but energetically wrong. It's cold where it should pulse with accumulated power, lifeless where it should hum with ancient voices.
"Nolan," I call, and he's beside me instantly. "This isn't just a fake. It's a decoy."
He takes the replica, his face grim. "The real mask was moved after the lights went out. This was planned."
His certainty is all tactics and logistics, but the weight in my palm lingers even after I set the replica down. The mask felt wrong—empty in a way that gnaws at me. Strategy can explain the theft. It can’t explain why my skin still crawls.
My comm crackles with reports from the perimeter teams. No breaches detected. No unauthorized exits. Whoever did this is still in the house, and they have the authentic mask.
"Underground," Nolan says suddenly. "There are passages beneath Saltmoor. Ryan showed me the old plans—smuggler tunnels from prohibition days."
