Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Before Jack could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. The cluster of hunters surrounding Hadrian had doubled.
“What do you mean he’s not coming? Saint-Clair was confirmed. I spoke to him two weeks ago.”
“Uninvited,” someone murmured. “Had his access pulled at the last minute.”
“On what grounds?”
“No one knows. You know how it is. Invitation at the host’s discretion.”
Hadrian’s jaw tightened. “Since when are the Volkovs picky?”
Silence. Most people knew better than to toss around the Volkov name, especially while standing in their grand ballroom.
Hadrian tossed back the rest of his drink. Little did he know he might be standing on the Volkov Preserve, but it was Jack’s liquor he drank. “Saint-Clair’s a prick, but he’s our prick. Someone should demand answers.”
No one volunteered.
Jack turned away, sure in the fact that Saint-Clair would never set foot on these grounds again. Let Hadrian question him or the Volkovs. They would gladly reacquaint him with Saint-Clair in an instant.
As Jack moved toward the bar, waving a finger at the bartender. “Three fingers of Mad Hatter.”
The servant nodded. “Here you are, Mr. Thorne,” he said, setting the crystal glass on a black napkin.
“Thank you, Russel.”
“My pleasure.”
Hadrian’s voice carried louder, emboldened by scotch and his audience of sycophants. “Honestly, I don’t know why we bother with all this theater. The dancing, the debuts, the bloody masquerade. Most of us just want to get what we paid for. Skip the niceties and rut into the does.” He laughed at his own crudeness.
Jack inhaled slowly, letting the cold settle into his chest before he changed direction without taking a sip.
“Actually,” Jack said, approaching the circle as he swirled the Mad Hatter in his glass. “The tradition of the tango has nothing to do with women at all.”
Hadrian stilled mid-laugh and raised a brow. “Didn’t realize you had opinions on dance, Thorne.”
“I have opinions on history.” Jack’s voice remained calm and measured. “The tango, specifically. Do you know where it originated?”
Hadrian’s smile thinned. “Argentina. Everyone knows that.”
“Buenos Aires, yes. The ports. The conventillos.” Jack swirled his drink, watching the amber catch the candlelight. “It was born in the slums, among immigrants and dockworkers. Men who had nothing but their bodies and their pride.”
“Fascinating,” Hadrian said flatly. “And this matters because…?”
“Because the tango wasn’t danced with women. Not at first.” Jack let the implication sink in. “It was danced between men. Compadritos, they called themselves.”
The men around Hadrian exchanged glances.
“It was a display of dominance,” Jack continued. “A duel without blades. The lead controls every movement, every breath. They must command complete surrender without words, or the entire dance falls apart. Historically, it’s how men established hierarchy. How they expressed who held power and who submitted to it.” He took a slow sip. “The brothels adopted it later. Then the upper classes, once they’d sanitized it enough for polite company. But at its core, the tango has always been about one thing.”
“And what’s that?” Hadrian asked, his tone caught between irritation and reluctant interest.
“Control.” Jack smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes.
Several men nodded, digesting this new knowledge, but Hadrian only narrowed his eyes.
Jack gestured toward the grand staircase with his glass. “So when the tributes make their debut tonight, and the dance begins, rest in the knowledge that you’re participating in an ancient pursuit of surrender, started here, but played out across two hundred acres until dawn.”
A beat of silence.
Then Hadrian laughed, a sharp bark that broke the tension. “Christ, Thorne. You could bore a woman to death before you ever get your dick wet.” He turned to his companions with a smirk. “Fuck all that performance shit. Give me a working-class girl with daddy issues, and I’ll fuck her like a sailor on leave ‘til the sun comes up.” His grin turned wolfish. “I’m craving hot cherry pie tonight, boys. Virgin’s on the menu, and I intend to sample as many as I can.”
The men around him laughed.
Jack’s expression didn’t change, but he caught Ash Volkov observing nearby, jaw tight, a glass of vodka in his hand, and a look of undisguised contempt in his eyes.
Jack inclined his head a fraction.
One day, Hadrian Welles would learn just how long Jack’s memory was. Every word spoken in this room was remembered. Every cruelty catalogued. Every violation noted. His reckoning would inevitably come. Jack just had to wait for the right opportunity to appear.
A sharp whistle cut through the hall, silencing the chatter like a blade through flesh.
Hunter Volkov stood at the top of the grand staircase. His enormous shadow cascaded down the stairs. The eldest Volkov brother was not merely tall. He was built to survive wars and designed to cause them.
His immaculate tuxedo did nothing to civilize him. Scars covered his knuckles and face, disappearing beneath his collar and cuffs. Dark hair swept back, exposing his sharp eyes as they swept the room with the flat assessment of a predator counting prey.