Page 79 of The Arbiter
The door clicks open.
The silence hits me first. It’s heavy, expensive, and laced with the scent of rain and old stone. I step out, my heels clicking onto the plush red carpet that leads into the belly of the mansion.
The silk of my dress ripples around my legs like a dark tide. There is no crowd here, only the watchful eyes of security details standing like statues.
Deimos doesn't just walk; he claims the space around him. He stops at my side and offers his arm. I hesitate for a heartbeat before sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow. The fabric of his suit is heavy, and beneath it, I can feel the iron-hard muscle of his arm.
"Chin up," he whispers, leaning down so his breath brushes my ear.
"They’re already watching from the windows. Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you blink."
As we walk through the massive mahogany doors, the scale of the opulence takes my breath away. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen explosions from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the men and women circulating below.
These aren't just rich people; these are the architects of the city’s misery, dressed in silk and diamonds. I feel exposed, every bruise he left on me hidden only by a few millimeters of shimmering fabric.
As we enter the main ballroom, the low hum of conversation dips. Heads turn. Not with the excitement, but with the cold, calculating gaze of sharks recognizing a new predator in their waters. I feel Deimos’s grip tighten slightly against my side. It’s a silent anchor.
A man with a silver mane of hair and a face like a sharpened blade, Councilman Thorne, steps forward from a circle of associates. His eyes rake over me with a clinical greed that makes my skin crawl.
He doesn't look at my face; he looks at the way the dress clings to me, then at the marks on my neck that the makeup couldn't entirely mask.
"Deimos," Thorne says, his voice a smooth, oily baritone.
"I didn't think you were a man for company. Especially not company so... refined."
I feel Deimos’s body shift, a subtle change in tension. He doesn't smile. He just looks at Thorne with the cold boredom of a man looking at an insect he’s about to crush.
"Councilman," he says, his voice projecting a quiet authority that cuts through the music.
"Allow me to introduce Dr. Madeline Emerson. The city’s finest forensic pathologist. I find it’s always best to have an expert on hand who can tell exactly when a heart has stopped beating."
Thorne’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. He looks into my ice-blue eyes, and for a moment, the power dynamic shifts. He realizes I’m not just a trophy; I’m a warning.
His gaze lingers on me a second too long, his eyes searching for the flicker of a victim beneath the shimmering dress. I feel Deimos’s arm tense under my hand. A silent, predatory coil ready to spring if the older man oversteps.
I don’t wait for Deimos to defend me.
I take a half-step forward, shortening the distance between myself and the Councilman just enough to reclaim the space.I don't offer my hand; I simply meet his stare with the same clinical detachment I use when I’m staring down a cold slab in the morgue.
"Actually, Councilman," I say, my voice steady, cutting through the low hum of the ballroom like a scalpel.
"My specialty isn't just identifying when a heart stops. It’s identifying the exact hand that stopped it. The body never lies, even when the people around it spend their lives doing nothing else."
I let a faint, cold smile touch my lips. The kind that doesn't reach my eyes. The sudden confidence isn't because of Deimos. It crawls to me, because I can see exactly what type of man The Councilman actually is. I know that the only thing he sees when looks at me, is how much money he could get for offering me as meat to the others.
Thorne blinks, his polished mask slipping for a fraction of a second. He wasn't expecting a voice; he was expecting a doll. He clears his throat, shifting his weight.
"A... fascinating profession, Doctor. Morbid, but necessary, I suppose."
"Necessary for the truth," I reply, my tone final.
"If you'll excuse us. I believe the air in this part of the room is getting a bit... stagnant."
Deimos doesn't say a word, but I feel the vibration of a low, dark chuckle deep in his chest. He gives Thorne a mock, minimalist nod and leads me away. Toward the far end of the gilded hall.
"Careful, little storm," he whispers, his lips inches from my ear as we move.
"You almost sounded like you enjoyed that. If you keep showing that much teeth, people might start to realize you’re more dangerous than the man you’re standing next to."
