Page 35 of Crystal Veil

His entire body goes rigid. “You know the scent?”

I nod slowly, the movement making my head spin. “Celine Boucher. It smells like her. That night at the gallery. She wore it. Stronger than tonight's but similar.”

His eyebrows snap together, and his jaw clenches. The muscle twitches beneath his cheekbone, a tell that means he's processing information, fitting pieces together in his mind.

“You think she did this?”

I consider it carefully, comparing what I know about Celine against the elegant cruelty of the message. “No,” I murmur. “Not like this. Celine's the kind of woman who kills with champagne and a smile. Not toxins in wax seals.”

She's too sophisticated for such direct methods, too careful about maintaining her polished image. Poison is messy and unpredictable. It leaves evidence and raises questions. Celine prefers subtler weapons, such as influence, manipulation, and social pressure.

He studies me with those penetrating eyes that see too much. “You think she's a pawn.”

“I think she likes power. But I don't think she wants blood on her hands.”

It's the truth, as far as I can determine it. Celine is ambitious, calculating, and probably ruthless in her own way. But she's also pragmatic. Getting involved in direct violence against thepakhan'swoman would be suicide, and she's too smart not to know that.

Renat doesn't answer immediately. I can see him turning over possibilities in his mind, sorting through suspects and motives with the cold calculation that makes him so dangerous. Finally, he reaches for my hand.

For a man who rules through violence, he is gentle now. His fingers wrap around mine like armor, warm and protective. The blood on his knuckles has dried to a dark crust, but his touch remains soft. He's careful with me in a way that makes my heart ache.

I lean into the warmth of his palm and close my eyes. The fear hasn't passed. It lingers, coiled tight around my ribs. But his presence makes it bearable and transforms terror into something I can survive.

He tucks the blanket around me so tenderly, it seems impossible from hands that have killed. His lips brush my forehead, and for a moment, I pretend the note never came. That we’re an average couple in a normal world. And that this baby will be born into light instead of shadow.

But the reality is always waiting, patient as a predator. Even in silence, I can feel it breathing down my neck, counting heartbeats, and measuring the distance between this moment and the next crisis.

16

RENAT

The walls of my estate are thick, but not dense enough to muffle the thunder gathering behind my ribs. I start with the mailroom.

Two men, both former Spetsnaz, both personally vetted by Artur, stand frozen under my glare. They stammer the same lines about protocols followed, packages inspected, and no anomalies detected. One of them begins to sweat. The other can't meet my eyes.

The mailroom is a fortress within a fortress. Steel-reinforced walls, triple-locked doors, and scanning equipment with a price tag higher than a suburban mortgage. Every piece of correspondence that enters this estate passes through here first. Every envelope, every package, every goddamn birthday card goes through the same rigorous process. Yet somehow, a poisoned letter slipped through their fingers like water.

I circle them slowly, my footsteps echoing in the sterile space. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, creating harsh shadows that make their faces look gaunt. These men have survived wars, interrogations, and situations that would break lesser soldiers.But right now, they look like schoolboys caught cheating on an exam.

“You handle every envelope?” I ask, my voice low, but seething.

“Yes,pakhan.”

“Gloved?”

“Always.”

The first man's voice cracks slightly. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool temperature in the room. His partner shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit that betrays his military training. Good soldiers don't fidget. Terrified soldiers do.

“And this one?” I hold up the sealed plastic bag containing the cream-colored envelope Elena received. Its red wax seal gleams under the overhead light. The floral scent still clings to the air around it. Subtle. Delicate. And now unmistakably threatening.

The envelope looks innocent enough. Expensive paper, elegant script, the kind of correspondence that might arrive from a luxury boutique or an exclusive gallery. But innocence is often the most dangerous disguise. I've learned that lesson more times than I care to count.

The man swallows hard. “It came from the outer courier drop. No return address. Passed initial scans.”

“And you didn't think to question a letter sealed in red wax and scented like a Parisian brothel?”

He stiffens. “There was no indication of biological agents. We cleared it. Swear on my life.”