The First Age

Although it was obscured by a mask, a familiar face came into view. He had been visited twice by this man: first in a dream and second on a dare.

“Adrian, I didn’t realize you were connected to the Vasilievs.” He offered to shake the man’s hand, but it was quick and not overly friendly. Adrian quietly threatened him the last time they met, not outright, but the potential was implied. At the time, Nikolai was willing to satiate the man’s request to be rid of him. He should have known he would want more.

Perhaps another tactic was in order. “How have your classes been going?” The inquiry regarded dabbling in the power, for which he had sent one of the  Dominions. Not even Michael was aware that Jay had such an assignment. It was strictly kept between the three of them because Adrian was a tool that Nikolai was not yet willing to test.

Cyrena’s mouth curved into a small, calculated smile. She let a beat pass, pretending to consider his question, though she already had her answer ready. A man like Carter would expect to be flattered, or teased, or both. She would give him just enough of each to keep him intrigued.

“Pity? No,” she purred, taking a leisurely sip of her own drink, her gaze never leaving his. “Let’s just say I have a weakness for lost causes. American men trying to play the part in Moscow.” Her smile turned almost imperceptibly sharper, a flash of teeth. “It’s endearing.”

She watched his reaction, pleased to see the slight shift in his expression—a flicker of amusement, perhaps even a hint of annoyance. Good. Men like him didn’t like being seen as endearing. It chipped away at their armor, introduced just a sliver of vulnerability. And Carter, with his sculpted confidence and immaculately curated persona, was no exception.

“So, tell me, Carter,” she continued, leaning in a little closer, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, “what brings you to a city like this? And don’t say business.” She allowed her leg to brush, just barely, against his as she rested her elbow on the bar. “Everyone says business. But a man with your…” she trailed off, letting her eyes linger on his suit, the watch gleaming on his wrist, his neatly trimmed hair, “…particular attention to detail must have a more interesting reason.”

Cyrena could practically see him recalculating, deciding what to give away, what to withhold. It was like watching a predator decide whether or not to play with its food, and the thought made her pulse quicken, though she’d never show it. She was adept at reading people, men especially, their wants and their insecurities. With him, she sensed something simmering just beneath the surface—something restless, maybe even desperate. And that made him all the more appealing.

“I’ll make a guess,” she continued, saving him the trouble of answering, her tone lightly mocking. “You’re here to chase demons. Or run from them. Moscow has a way of attracting both.” She let her gaze drift over him, as if assessing him anew. “You strike me as the haunted type.”

For just a fraction of a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression—a crack in the polished, confident exterior. Cyrena hid her satisfaction behind another sip of vodka. She wasn’t here to make friends: lovers, possibly; she was here to find useful connections, powerful allies. Carter, with his air of privilege and concealed purpose, had potential.

Before he could respond, she glanced over her shoulder at the glittering room, the wealthy and the ambitious mingling in their little clusters of importance. Her eyes slid back to him, cold and assessing.

Carter was nearly rendered speechless by Cyrena’s captivating monologue. She wasn’t supermodel beautiful but was far more attractive. She gave off this aura of a beautiful insect, deadly and poisonous, yet he had this undeniable urge to get closer and in doing so bare every thought he’d ever had.

“Definitely not business,” Carter didn’t need to suppress any emotion there. He was a devoted son to the family legacy, but he would never discuss such things with a stranger. “And no demons, either.” The comment struck him darker than he expected himself to react to such a benign metaphor.

He took a breath to recenter himself, and in doing so, glanced around them. “Actually, I’m here for a girl.”

The Patron’s arrival was not unexpected. Colette studied up on Sofia’s family before tonight, and she was aware of the family relation with the Patron. Myshelov was famous in his own right, even for an American. As a Moreau, she was not unaccustomed to mingling with politicians, usually in a party atmosphere exactly like this one. So she smiled the perfect amount to not seem overeager but maintain an affable and warm presence. She thought the Patron studied her in return, if only for a moment, and she watched him escort Sofia to the dance floor.

Zixin’s offer took her attention back to the moment. He asked her to dance, to which she nodded. “I happily accept.”

Colette was a perfect dancer, of course. She’d been attending balls and galas for a decade, but an affair as lavish as this was rare in New York these days. Certainly one was never attended by the Ascendancy.

She allowed herself to be swept into Zixin’s arms where she maintained a respectful distance. “So Zixin, are you from Singapore?” It was posed like small talk, but only someone who was invested in keeping up with world events might recognize the connection to the Singaporean family.

Elena was an adequate partner. Tall and willowy, her long limbs moved with the practiced ease of someone who had spent a small fortune perfecting the art of being watched. Her sky-high heels gave her a commanding height, towering over Daniil by several inches, but the tilt of her chin and the subtle shift in his grip made it clear who dictated the rhythm of the dance.

He lingered through a second song, not for her sake, but for the flickers of envy and admiration he caught in the glances of those gathered around the edge of the floor. Approval, after all, was a currency he enjoyed spending even if he cared little for its source.

When Myshelov stepped onto the parquet with Sofia in tow, Daniil’s gaze followed, and their eyes met across the gilded expanse of the ballroom. A faint, wordless acknowledgment passed between them—a shared smirk, an almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t warmth; they were not the sort for sentimental connections. But there was understanding. Recognition. Father and son, cut from the same fine and unyielding cloth, each perfectly the picture of their mutual roles in society.

The way Dmitri looked at her was painful, and in a blink the years closed tight; he seemed bewitched under a spell she had not cast. His dark eyes devoured. The wrap of his palm at the curve of her waist made her his again. Even the smell of him was overpoweringly familiar, drowning out the scent of Nikolai’s perfume on her skin. It was spice and heat and tempestuousness, and it made her heart skitter in fear. 

Yet to look too uncomfortable in their dance would be to risk inviting unwanted attention. She was not sure what Dima would do if someone intervened. Family was paramount to a Vaisiliev, and this event was the pride of his mother’s calendar. But the man had a temper. Upon unexpectedly finding what was lost, she was not sure how easily he would let go. If she could just survive the dance, she could find respite. Slip away without creating a scene.

For now she daren’t look to see if Nikolai had returned. Understanding the reasons for his sojourn from the party sank her heavy heart, but even knowing where rumour had placed him, she did not want him to witness this. The lay of her hands on Dima’s arms was light, her manner demure. Noémi twisted and moved to his guidance like she was air. The gold mask protected her expression at least, and she tried not to meet his eyes. A flash of scarlet in her peripheral did nothing to soothe her unease. Sofia, with Moscow’s Patron.

Dima twirled her out, and when he recaptured her he pulled her effortlessly close. The fingers of his other hand splayed through hers, coaxing intimacy she did not want to give. He leaned close, lips by her ear. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said. His tone was seductive soft, posed somewhere between a question and an accusation.

---

Maksim made an effort to usher in their introduction discreetly, but the moment Alina saw him every motivation she had to be careful fizzled to nothing. There was no one here to witness what transpired. Iason had wandered far from the party, as though perhaps he sought solitude. No one knew who he was, of course, but his loneliness broke her heart. He looked so sad, staring up at that mural.

She glanced at Maksim with wide, emotion-filled eyes. Gratitude overflowed that he allowed her this moment with the man who saved his life. But with that thankfulness bloomed the awful memories of how close she may have come to losing him. She squeezed Maksim’s hand before she stepped forward.

How many had Iason saved? And yet he stood here alone. Jensen. The man behind the mask. Alina reached softly for his hands. She daren’t speak his name, knowing the risk she and Maksim took to reveal what they knew. Her smile was gentle, as – wanting to share something meaningful, more than just her gratitude – she pressed his palm to the curve of her stomach. Though the cut of the dress was looser than it might have been there was little yet to feel or see, but the gesture was universal. Jensen had not just saved a son and a husband, but a father.

“Our family does not know yet. It’s our second,” she said to him. “How do I ever thank you?”