Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Ascendancy]

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.

[Jaxen Marveet]

Cyrena Marveet

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.