Page 177 of Obsidian
“You trust Dom to keep me alive?”
“With my life. With yours.”
“And you trust me to do this without getting caught?”
“You are best thief I know. Only thief I know. But best one anyway.”
His mouth curved. Small. Broken. Real. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel his warmth. Close enough that everyone in the room could see what we were to each other and neither of us cared anymore. “You're right. This is smarter. Gets us more evidence. And keeps me out of the one scenario where Marcel wins everything.”
Relief crashed through me so hard I almost staggered.
“But Viktor?” His hand found my wrist. Squeezed. “If you die out there, I'm going to be very pissed. And then I'm going to burn his office down just for the satisfaction.”
“Noted.”
His thumb pressed against my pulse. Counting heartbeats. Memorizing rhythm. Like he was trying to keep me alive through force of will alone.
Adrian cleared his throat. “Good. We're agreed. Now let's talk timing.”
But I couldn't look away from Sebastian. From the devastation in his eyes. From the way betrayal had carved him open and left him bleeding.
Marcel had taken everything from him. Trust. Safety. The belief that there were people in the world who wouldn't hurt him.
Tomorrow night, we'd start taking it back.
One way or another, Marcel was finished.
I'd make sure of it.
25
HIDDEN HAND
SEBASTIAN
The palace felt different when you knew you were about to burn it down.
I stood in my father's study, rain tapping against the windows like fingers asking to be let in. The fireplace crackled, throwing shadows that danced across walls covered in portraits of dead kings. Men who'd held power and lost it. Men who'd made terrible choices and called them duty.
Viktor stood beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Both of us were still damp from the drive back from Greenwich. My hair stuck to my forehead. His jacket dripped water onto expensive carpet.
My father didn't seem to notice. Or care.
He looked older than he had this morning. Older than he had yesterday. Like the weight of what we were about to tell him had already settled into his bones before we'd said a word.
Viktor laid a folder on the desk. Heavy. Final. The sound it made hitting mahogany felt like a verdict.
“Evidence from the Sentinel network,” Viktor said. Voice flat. Professional. “Payments. Coded shipments. All routed through Marcel Holdings.”
I watched my father's face. Waited for shock. Anger. Denial.
Found none of it.
Just weariness. Like he'd been carrying this truth for longer than he wanted to admit and was relieved someone had finally dragged it into the light.
