The room glows amber in the candlelight, shadows flickering across the high walls of your suite. The sound of distant music seeps in from the ballroom below—soft, indistinct, like the hum of a different world. You stand before the mirror in your underdress, the corset half-laced, hands trembling slightly as you fumble with the ribbon.
Behind you, Levi watches in silence from the settee, still half in uniform. You feel his eyes on your back, the way he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. Not moving. Not speaking.
"I can do it," you murmur, not turning around.
A pause. Then the soft creak of leather as he stands.
You watch his reflection draw closer—slow, deliberate. His gloves are gone. He doesn't ask permission. Just lifts the laces and begins to thread them through.
His fingers brush your spine, knuckles grazing skin with each pull. The air between you grows thicker.
"You're shaking," he says quietly.
"Just nerves."
Another pull. "About the ball?"
You meet his eyes in the mirror. "About what comes after."
He doesn't answer, but his hands slow.
When he finishes, you reach for the emerald silk mask that matches your gown. He catches your wrist gently.
"You sure about this?"
You nod. "I have to be."
—
The ballroom is a kaleidoscope of velvet and jewels. Nobles spin in twinkling circles beneath chandeliers dripping with crystal. Laughter. Champagne. The scent of roses and secrets.
You descend the grand staircase on Levi's arm. Together, you are the perfect illusion—regal, reserved, unreadable. His mask is raven-black, simple but sharp. Yours sparkles in green and gold, catching the candlelight as you move.
Vaergan meets you at the base of the stairs with a smile that is too white, too eager.
"Lady Elowyn," he says, bowing low. "You enchant the room."
You curtsy smoothly. "The room was already enchanted."
He turns to Levi. "And you, Lord Marchand, look every bit the war hero."
Levi's reply is dry. "I aim to dress for the role."
The music swells. Vaergan gestures toward the dance floor.
"Would you grant me this first—"
"She's promised it to me," Levi cuts in smoothly. He doesn't wait for your reaction—just takes your hand and leads you into the swirl.
You raise an eyebrow as he draws you close. "Possessive tonight?"
He doesn't smile. "Preventative."
You waltz in time, steps practiced, bodies aligned. His hand rests low on your waist. His gaze doesn't leave yours.
"You look like you belong here," he says softly.
You tilt your head. "So do you."
His breath is warm against your cheek. "You don't need to pretend so hard. Not with me."
Your hand tightens slightly on his shoulder. "I'm not pretending."
The song shifts—strings rising, falling. Your footwork flows but your pulse spikes. His hand inches higher along your back. Your eyes lock.
It's too close. Too slow. Each brush of your body against his is a whisper, a question you both refuse to ask out loud. The music dips, rises.
The dance ends. But your heartbeat doesn't slow.
He doesn't let go.
Not until the next waltz begins.
—
After the second waltz, you excuse yourself for fresh air. Levi trails you to the corridor outside the ballroom, where the guards have already begun thinning for the night. Music follows you, muffled now, like a secret fading.
You press forward, steps light, skirts gathered in your fist. Levi flanks your side, sharp-eyed and silent. When you reach the hall leading toward the east wing, he tugs you suddenly toward him—mouth crashing into yours.
You gasp.
"Footsteps," he murmurs against your lips.
But he doesn't stop.
Your pulse races as the kiss deepens—longer than it needs to be. His hand slides up your back, anchoring you close. The footsteps pass—slow, idle, as if the nobles are eavesdropping. But still, Levi kisses you. Thorough. Intentional. Like it's not just for show.
It burns.
When they finally vanish down the hall, his mouth lingers a heartbeat longer. Then two. Then three.
And still, he doesn't pull away.
Your mind is a blur—caught between alarm and desire, torn between the urgency of your mission and the impossible heat building in your chest. You can feel every point of contact: his hand on your back, the way his lips part slightly against yours, the catch of his breath as though he, too, is startled by how long he's holding on.
He's not acting anymore. Not entirely.
You start to tremble.
That's when he breaks it—slowly, deliberately, like he has to force himself.
His voice brushes against your skin, low and sharp with restraint.
"Move."
You stagger back a step, eyes wide, lips still tingling.
And then you run. Not from him. But from what that kiss almost became.
—
The east wing is dim and colder, like the house has forgotten it exists. The heels of your shoes click quietly against the wood, the echo swallowed by thick carpet and thicker dread.
You reach the study.
The antlers loom.
You pause at the threshold, the gravity of the moment slowing your breath. This is it. You're not just spying. You're crossing into something real, something with consequences.
You cross to the cabinet, reaching with gloved fingers. The leftmost antler.
Twist.
Pull.
Click.
The panel pops open.
Inside: a worn leather notebook.
You pull it free, fingers trembling. The pages are dense with ink—numbers, names, maps. Some of the handwriting you recognize. Military sigils. One page is stamped with the Military Police seal—faint but unmistakable.
You blink hard.
So it's true. Vaergan isn't just trafficking people—he's linked to Titan experimentation. Possibly government-sanctioned.
Your mouth goes dry.
Behind you, Levi whispers: "We need to go."
You tuck the notebook into your bodice and shut the cabinet. No trace. No time.
He takes your hand and pulls you back into the dark.
—
The suite is quiet when you return, both of you breathless and too awake. Levi doesn't let go of your hand.
You stand there in silence, still masked.
Finally, he speaks. "Let me see it."
You slide the notebook free and place it in his palm. His fingers brush yours—warm, steady. He opens the first page, but his brow furrows almost immediately.
"It's coded," he mutters, flipping through quickly. "All of it. Names, dates, everything—encrypted."
Your stomach drops. You lean in to glance at the symbols—patterns of numbers and shifting letter grids. Some of it looks like gibberish, but not random.
You nod slowly. "We can't read it. Not yet."
Levi's expression hardens. "Then we find the cipher. Wherever he's hidden it. We're not done."
You press your lips together and exhale. The real work was only just beginning.
"I could've been wrong," you murmur. "About trusting Marla."
"You weren't."
You glance at him. "You kissed me."
His eyes lift. "To sell it."
"That's all?"
Silence.
You step closer. The gown rustles around your ankles.
He doesn't move. Not away.
You reach up, pull his mask free.
Then yours.
You meet him in the half-light. Soft. Certain.
This time, when he leans in—he stops just shy of your lips.
The air between you crackles. His breath brushes your cheek. But he waits. Testing. Teasing. A question in the tension.
Your fingers hover near his collar, unmoving. Your heart is a drum in your ribs.
But the kiss never lands.
He pulls back, slow and smooth, as if nothing had happened. As if everything had.
And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and maddening, but laced with restraint, like he's holding something fragile between his teeth:
"Not yet," he says, gaze locked on yours, voice barely more than a whisper.
You don't move. You barely breathe. The ache in your chest is a pressure now, dense and humming.
"Then when?" you ask quietly, revisiting the question you asked earlier in the night—the one he never answered.
His throat works once. He doesn't look away.
"When I'm sure it's not just the mission making you look at me like that."
Your breath catches. Because that's the thing—you don't know if it is. Or isn't.
He turns from you gently, but his hand brushes your waist as he passes—brief, lingering.
The touch is not a promise. It's a warning.
The silence that follows isn't empty.
It's full of the things neither of you are ready to say.