Inside, the grand ballroom glittered under three crystal chandeliers. Silk gowns whispered against marble floors. Champagne flutes clinked like wind chimes. The air smelled of expensive perfume and older money.

And yet, the moment he entered, the room went silent.

Mikhail Blackthorne didn't walk so much as he arrived—a shadow given form, all tailored black and quiet menace. He was taller than every man in the room, broader than most of them, and the only person there who didn't seem to be performing.

Men who commanded armies lowered their gazes. Women who owned half of Europe pretended not to stare.

He didn't acknowledge any of them.

His eyes swept the crowd once, twice, searching—until they landed on you.

The crowd parted for him like water before a blade.