"Kyle, the gallery," I breathed, my voice barely a whisper. "There's someone—"
"I see him," Kyle rasped, his hand tightening on my waist until it was almost painful. He didn't stop dancing. He spun me again, a flash of red velvet and midnight silk. "Don't look up. Keep your eyes on me, Val. That's an order."
"You and your damn orders," I hissed, my loud mouth fighting through the terror. "You're going to get us both killed just to prove you're the biggest alpha in the room!"
"I'm going to get us through this because I'm the only one who can," he retorted, his arrogance shielding the flicker of dread in his pupils.
The shot didn't sound like a gunshot. It was a sharp, suppressed thwip—the sound of a professional at work.
I waited for the pain. I waited for the world to go black. But Kyle didn't flinch. Instead, a glass of champagne shattered on a table five feet behind us. And then, a heavy, sickening thud echoed from the edge of the dance floor.
The music died mid-note.
Kyle let go of my hand but kept his arm locked around my waist as we turned. Arthur Vanguard—Kyle's father, the man who had looked at me like I was a stain on the carpet only days ago—was slumped over a marble pedestal. A single, clean hole had been punched through his shoulder, missing his heart by an inch.
"Father!" Kyle roared.
The room erupted. People screamed, diving under tables draped in white linen. But Kyle didn't move. He stood over his father, his hand finally reaching for the weapon at his back, his eyes fixed on the gallery.
The shooter was gone.
"Val, get down!" Kyle shoved me toward the floor, but I didn't stay there.
"I'm not a dog you can tell to sit!" I shouted, scrambling up even as the guards rushed the floor.
Kyle ignored me, kneeling over his father. Arthur was pale, his silver hair matted with blood, but his flinty eyes were open. He looked past his son, directly at me.
"You..." Arthur wheezed, his voice bubbling. "He... he wasn't aiming for the girl, Kyle."
Kyle froze. His hands, covered in his father's blood, stayed hovering over the wound. "What are you talking about?"
"The message..." Arthur groaned. "It's not... about her. It's about the bloodline."
Kyle stood up slowly. The air around him seemed to freeze. He turned to me, his face a mask of such raw, jagged fury that for the first time, I was actually afraid to speak. He reached out, his bloody hand grabbing my upper arm, pulling me toward him until our faces were inches apart.
"You," he growled, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. "Your ghost didn't come for you tonight. He came for my legacy."
"I didn't ask for this, Kyle!" I shouted back, my stubbornness rising to meet his rage. "I didn't ask you to hunt me down! I didn't ask for this collar!"
"And yet, here we are," Kyle hissed. He didn't let go. He leaned in, his bloody thumb tracing the line of my jaw, leaving a dark, metallic smear across my skin. "My father is bleeding because of a war you brought into my house. You think you're an asset? Right now, you're the reason my empire is crumbling."
"Then let me go!" I dared him, my eyes burning. "If I'm such a curse, throw me to the sharks and save your precious bloodline!"
Kyle's grip tightened until I winced. He pulled me flush against his chest, his heart beating with a violent, erratic rhythm. The physical touch was no longer about a dance or a claim; it was about a man holding onto the one thing he hated himself for wanting.
"No," he rasped, his lips grazing my ear. "You don't get off that easy. You're going to stay. You're going to watch me rebuild every brick that Moretti breaks. And you're going to do it from my shadow."
He turned to his lead guard, his voice returning to that cold, arrogant command. "Take her back to the penthouse. Lock the floor down. If she so much as breathes near a window, I'll have your heads."
"Kyle, wait—"
He didn't wait. He turned his back on me to bark orders at the medics, leaving me to be dragged away by two men in suits. As they hauled me through the chaos of the gala, I looked back.
Kyle was standing in the center of the room, covered in his father's blood, looking like a king who had just realized his throne was on fire. He didn't look at me. He was already back to being the cold, arrogant machine he was born to be.
But as the elevator doors closed, I saw him drop the charred piece of red velvet—the one from the note—onto the floor and crush it under his heel.