The heavy oak doors of the ballroom swung shut, cutting off the jazz music and the murmurs of the elite. The silence of the corridor was instant and cool.
Damien was marching, his hand gripping Aria’s tightly, his stride eating up the floor with the intent of a man who wanted to put as much distance between his wife and his family as possible.
"Damien," Aria said, pulling him to a stop.
He turned, his brow furrowed, adrenaline still humming under his skin.
Aria stepped into his space, went up on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his.
It was soft and gentle kiss. A quiet seal of gratitude in the middle of a war zone.
She pulled back, smiling up at him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For defending me." Her face flushed as she continued, "I’m not used to having anyone on my side."
Damien’s expression softened, the hard lines of his rage melting into something darker and more possessive. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"I will always be on your side, Aria," he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
He kissed her then—deeply, claiming her mouth with a slow, rolling rhythm that made her toes curl in the stuffed shoes. His hands slid down the velvet of her dress, cupping her rear and squeezing firmly.
"Eep!" Aria squealed against his mouth, jumping slightly at the sudden grope.
Damien pulled back, his eyes hazy with lust. He looked down at the midnight blue gown.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "Though I don’t remember you packing this. Is it new?"
"It’s stolen," Aria confessed, grinning wickedly. "I raided Diana’s closet while you were in your meeting. She had it buried in the back with the tags still on."
Damien raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement cutting through his intensity. "You stole from my sister?"
"I liberated it," Aria corrected. "It was dying of boredom in that beige purgatory. Besides, it looks better on me I’m sure."
Damien hummed, his gaze sweeping over her curves. "I didn’t know Diana had taste."
His hands tightened on her waist.
"I want to take it off you," he rasped. "Right now."
"As much as I would love for you to peel me out of this," Aria whispered, patting his chest, "I want to get out of this place. I want to go back home."
"Okay." Damien nodded. He took her hand, interlacing their fingers.
"Let’s go."
They walked toward the East Wing, their footsteps quiet on the marble. The mood shifted as they moved away from the party, the flirtatious energy settling into a serious, hushed conversation.
"I never expected Lydia to be here," Aria said, her voice low. "How did she even get an invitation?"
"She didn’t need one," Damien said grimly. "In that stupid old man’s rush, he made the invitation open to any and every socialite with some standing who would be available. My guess is she saw the public announcement for the charity ball and hopped a plane."
"I thought she might’ve brought friends," Damien admitted, his jaw tightening. "It was Kai who saw her social media post and warned me she might not be traveling alone."
"So that’s why you looked like you were about to have a heart attack, " Aria muttered under her breath.
Aria squeezed his hand. She looked at his profile—usually so stoic, so unshakeable. Seeing the cracks in his armor, the genuine fear he had felt for her, made her chest ache.
"You’re cute when you’re worried," she teased gently.
Damien rolled his eyes playfully as he kissed her hand. "Only you would find me losing my mind cute."
Aria chuckled, her heart swelled in her chest, he cared so much about her.
"Did you see anyone?" Aria asked, her tone turning sharp. "Anyone suspicious?"
"I scanned the room," Damien said. "Every waiter, every guest. I didn’t see anyone who looked out of the ordinary. But that could mean they are damn good at blending in."
"Or maybe Lydia is acting alone this time," Aria mused. "Maybe she’s desperate. She’s broke, she’s being investigated so... maybe she came here for pity. To find a new sponsor?"
"Maybe," Damien said. But he didn’t sound convinced.
They turned the corner into the corridor.
Damien stopped abruptly.
"Diana?"
Aria looked ahead.
Diana Sinclair was lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway, right outside her ajar bedroom door. She was curled on her side, one arm thrown out as if she had reached for the frame and missed. An empty wine bottle lay on the carpet a few feet away.
"Oh god," Aria whispered.
Damien rushed forward, crouching beside his sister. He checked her pulse instantly, his movements efficient and practiced.
"She’s out cold," Damien sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping as he smelled the alcohol fumes radiating off her. "She drank too much. She wasn’t even at the gala. Did she go in the cellar and drank everything?"
He shook his head, looking down at her with a mix of annoyance and deep, weary brotherly affection.
"Reckless idiot," he muttered. "You’re forty-five, Diana. Pass out in your bed, not the hall."
He slid his arms under her, scooping her unconscious body up effortlessly.
Aria moved to the door, intending to push it further open. As Damien shifted Diana’s weight, the older woman’s arm lolled downward, swinging limp. The sleeve of her cream cashmere sweater rode up.
Aria froze.
"Damien. Stop."
Her voice was sharp, urgent.
Damien paused. "What?"
Aria stared at Diana’s wrist.
There, stark against the pale skin of her inner forearm, was a drawing. It wasn’t a tattoo. It was fresh black ink, drawn with a ballpoint pen.
It was a small, perfectly detailed snake.
A viper.
Aria looked from the mark to the open, dark mouth of Diana’s bedroom.
"Don’t go in there," Aria whispered, grabbing Damien’s arm and pulling him back.
"Aria?"
"There’s a viper on her wrist," she pointed, her finger trembling. "She didn’t draw that. Look at the angle. Someone drew it on her."
She looked at Damien, her eyes wide with dread as she whispered.
"I think they are in the estate."