Damon's POV
Gala. Parade of vultures.
Stood on the mezzanine. Glass of scotch. Watching them circle. Diamonds. Tuxedos. Greed. Fear. Ambition.
"Sir." Elias. Appearing at my elbow. "Security sweep complete. No sign of the seller."
"She's here." Scanning the crowd. "I can feel it."
Wolf was pacing. Restless. Scratching at the back of my skull. Not agitated. Low, constant hum. Found. Close.
Where?
Scanned every face. Every scent. Nothing matched Lyra's "quiet" signature.
Well...
Gaze drifted. Buffet table.
Woman. Disaster in leopard print. Hair a bird's nest of hairspray. Currently loud-laughing at a joke made by a Russian arms dealer. Hand resting scandalously on his bicep.
Kids. Three.
One dismantling a chocolate fountain. Another refusing to speak to a waiter. Third—girl in a pink explosion of a dress—staring directly at me.
Frowned.
"Who let the circus in?"
Elias checked his tablet. "Ms. Gold. 'Trophy Wife' entry. Land 42. Husband: silent partner. Eastern Syndicate."
"Silent partner." Scoffed. "With a wife that loud?"
Woman turned. Tripped over her own five-inch heels. Spilled champagne on a Duke. Shrill "Oopsie!" Grated on my enhanced hearing. Nails on chalkboard.
Looked away.
Trash.
Wolf whined.
Close.
"Ignore it." Stress. Gun.
Turned to leave. "Check the vaults again. I want—"
Crash.
Looked down.
"Ms. Gold" managed to collide with a waiter. Tray of crystal flutes. Glass shattered. Champagne sprayed.
Fell.
Right into the path of my security chief. Knocking him into the VIP elevator control panel.
"Oh my god!" Screeched. "My dress! Limited edition Versace!"
Polyester. Definitely.
But saw something.
Hand.
While flailing... hand moved. Not clumsy drunk. Precise. Controlled arc. Fingers brushed the security chief's belt.
Keycard.
Vanished into her sleeve.
Fast. Fluid. Invisible. Even cameras missed it.
I saw it.
Narrowed my eyes.
"Elias." Handed him my glass. "Hold my scotch."
"Sir?"
"Think I found our seller."
Walked down the stairs. Crowd parted. Scent of ozone followed me.
Approached the "disaster zone".
Berating the waiter. Back to me.
"Do you know how much dry cleaning costs?" Wailed.
Stopped right behind her.
"Ms. Gold." Voice low. Dangerous.
Froze.
Turned.
Up close, makeup worse. Spider-leg lashes. Lips painted violent fuchsia.
But eyes...
Under glitter... clear. Cold. Calculating.
Split second. Saw the predator behind the mask.
Blinked. Gone. Replaced by vapid stare.
"Oh! Mr. Storm!" Batted lashes. "Taller in person! Like a... expensive building!"
"Dance with me."
Not a question.
Extended my hand.
"Oh, love to!" Grabbed my hand. Palm sweaty. Or gel. "Hold my purity ring!"
Tossed plastic jewelry to her son (eating fountain). Stepped into my personal space.
Smelled of cheap perfume. Vanilla. Synthetic.
But underneath...
Pulled her onto the dance floor. Orchestra playing a waltz.
Hand on her waist. Fabric of leopard print. Cheap. Rough.
Muscle underneath?
Steel. Tense. Ready to strike.
"Nimble fingers, Ms. Gold," I murmured. Spinning her.
"Thanks!" Stepped on my foot. Hard. Stiletto. "Used to be a hand model! For... gloves!"
Didn't flinch. Tightened grip.
"Did you?" Leaned down. Lips brushing her ear. "Model for pickpocketing too?"
Stiffened.
"Don't know what you mean!" Giggled. Terrible sound. "Hitting on me? Husband is very jealous! Owns... a boat!"
"Don't care about your imaginary husband." Growled. "Care about the keycard in your sleeve."
Looked up at me.
Act dropped. Just for a second.
Smirked.
Sharp. Dangerous. Transformed her face. Wasn't Ms. Gold. Wasn't the neighbor.
Her.
"If you want it back," she whispered. Voice dropping the shrill accent. Smoky. Calm. Haunted my dreams. "You'll have to take it."
Spun out of my grip.
Reached for her.
Stomped on my other foot. Harder.
"Ouch!" Hissed.
Use the moment. Slip into the crowd.
"Mommy needs a bathroom break!" Shouted. Waving.
Stood there. Middle of the dance floor. Feet throbbing. Surrounded by staring elites.
Looked at my shoes. Two perfect heel imprints on the Italian leather.
Looked at her retreating figure. Leopard print swaying.
Wolf howling.
Mate. Enemy. Mine.
Touched my pocket.
Comms device gone.
Pickpocketed me. While I was accusing her of pickpocketing the chief.
Started to laugh.
Terrified guests backed away.
"Well played, Lyra." Whispered.
Tapped earpiece (backup).
"Elias."
"Sir?"
"Lock down the elevators. Send a bottle of Dom Pérignon to the security room."
"Security room? Why?"
"Because." Watched leopard print disappear. "That's where she's going. Want to be there when she opens the door."
Hunt was on.
This time, not just chasing a memory.
Chasing a woman who dared to step on my shoes.
And steal my heart.
Again.