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I recognize him immediately, not because we’ve ever met, but because, again,know thy enemy.
I pretend to look past him, like I’m just casually checking out the room, before I let my gaze slide back over him again.
A chill drags its claws down my spine as something malevolent emanating from him creeps and prowls its way across the room toward me.
The dark suit. The cold, sharp eyes. The way he carries himself with quiet, predatory grace. He’s like a panther in a room full of prey, watching, waiting for the right moment to pounce. And right now, he’s watchingme.
My heart skips a beat.Fuck.
I take another sip of my drink, forcing my face into a mask of indifference as I thread my way through the crowd. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, like a weight pressing down on my shoulders.
Mercifully, I spot Isaak, Kir’s number two, across the room, and make a beeline for him. But just before I insert myself into whatever conversation he’s having, I chance another look behind me.
…And my eyes instantly find Mal, staring right back.
Like he’s watching. Waiting.
Readying himself.
5
FREYA
Something’s wrong.
Almost an hour into this fucking party, I can still feel it: the strange, prickling sensation on the back of my neck, like someone’s watching me. I’ve always been good at sensing things like that, picking up on the subtle shifts in energy that other people ignore. It’s a survival technique—one I honed growing up in an environment where danger lurked around every corner.
But this... This feels different.
Also, whenever I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see those piercing ice-blue eyes boring into my soul?
Nada.
Not a fucking thing. It’s like I’m looking for a ghost.
I sip my drink, my eyes scanning the room for the hundredth time. The crowd has grown since I arrived, and the low murmur of conversation hums in the background, blending with the soft clink of glasses and the muted shuffle of feet on the marblefloor. It’s all very civilized. Polite. A display of power and wealth, disguised as a celebration.
But there’s something dark beneath the surface. I can feel it.
My fingers tighten around my glass, my eyes flicking to Annika and Kenzo. They’re in the center of the room, surrounded by a small knot of well-dressed guests, laughing at some joke Kenzo just made. Annika’s smile is perfect, her laughter light and easy, but I know her well enough to see the strain beneath it.
She doesn’t want this. She’sneverwanted this.
The thought sends a flare of anger through me, but I force it down. This isn’t the time.
I take another sip of vodka, the alcohol burning as it slides down my throat, and glance around the room again. That strange feeling hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Like the air itself is charged with something I can’t quite name.
It’s terrifying.
I turn back toward the bar, hoping another drink will help calm my nerves, but as I do, a figure moves into my line of sight, blocking my view.
Sota Akiyama.
He’s dressed impeccably as always, his suit perfectly tailored, his silvery-white hair slicked back in an effortlessly powerful way that makes everyone pay attention. He’s got that old-school Japanese gangster look to him, complete withirezumistyle Yakuza tattoo ink peeking out of his cuffs.
He’s also missing a pinky finger.
Yubitsume.
