Page 81 of The Arbiter
"I’ve heard of your work in the private morgue. It must be... exhausting. Slicing through the layers of the same gang members, the addicts, and the discarded. It’s a noble enough trade, I suppose, if one doesn't mind the stench of failure that clings to the public sector."
She lets a thin, mocking smile play on her lips, her gaze flicking toward Deimos for a fraction of a second before returning to me.
"But I find it curious," she continues, her tone dripping with feigned pity.
"A woman of your supposed 'brilliance' reduced to being a decorative alarm system for a man like Deimos. Tell me, do you find it difficult to maintain your clinical objectivity when you’re wearing his marks beneath that expensive glitter? Or is the pathology of your own Stockholm syndrome the only case you're currently working on?"
Beside her, Doran lets out a short, dry chuckle. I feel the air around Deimos turn frigid, a dark, murderous energy radiating off him that would have made any other woman collapse.
But I don't collapse.
The insult hits me like a shot of pure adrenaline. My pulse doesn't spike with fear; it sharpens. My competitive nature, the one that kept me at the top of my class while everyone else burned out, surges to the surface.
She thinks I’m just a broken girl in a pretty dress. She thinks her private-sector pedigree makes her the smartest in this room.
I take a slow, rhythmic breath, my eyes turning into shards of ice as I stare her down. I don't look at the men. I don't look at the room. I look at the flaw in her makeup, the slight puffiness under her left eye that tells me she hasn't slept in forty-eight hours.
"It’s interesting you mention failure, Aris," I say, my voice coming out low, steady, and dangerously calm.
"Because I was just looking at your last three 'private' certificates of death for Doran's estate. The ones involving the 'accidental' respiratory failures in healthy forty-year-old men."
I step closer, closing the gap until our dresses are almost touching. I can smell the expensive, floral perfume she’s using to hide the faint, metallic scent of formaldehyde that never truly leaves a pathologist’s skin.
"Your technique is sloppy," I whisper, loud enough for Doran to hear.
"You’re relying on potassium chloride levels that any first-year intern could spot if they knew where to look. You’re not a doctor; you’re a janitor with a degree. You don't solve crimes, you bury them. And frankly? You aren't even very good at that."
I let my gaze drop to her hands, which are currently gripping her clutch so hard her knuckles are white.
"You’re shaking," I observe, my voice cutting through her pride like a serrated blade.
"Is it the pressure of the room, or are you starting to realize that for the first time in your career, you’re standing across from someone who can see exactly how many mistakes you've made?"
It’s as if the music in the ballroom has been sucked into a vacuum, leaving only the sound of Aris’s shallow, indignant breathing. Her face, once a mask of porcelain perfection, is now flushed with a ugly red.
She opens her mouth to retort, to claw back some semblance of her shattered dignity, but the air in the room suddenly feels heavy, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.
A large, warm hand slides firmly onto the small of my back. Deimos steps forward, his presence expanding to fill the space between us and them. He doesn't look at Aris; he doesn't even grant her the acknowledgment of a glance.
His focus is entirely on Alaric, but his touch on my spine is possessive, steady, and terrifyingly proud.
"Careful, Alaric," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that shivers through the silk of my dress.
"My doctor doesn't just diagnose diseases. She dissects egos. And from the look of your 'blood-hound,' she’s already found the cancer."
Doran’s smirk has vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating hardness. He looks at Aris, then back at Deimos, realizing that the intellectual superiority he brought as a weapon has been turned into a liability.
Deimos leans in slightly, his eyes locked on Alaric’s, but his words are meant for everyone within earshot.
"You brought a lab assistant to a war. I brought the woman who knows exactly how much pressure it takes to stop a heart, and exactly whose hands have tried. If I were you, I’d take your doctor to the bar. She looks like she needs something to steady her nerves. My little pathologist is just getting started."
He doesn't wait for a response. With a firm, guiding pressure on my back, he steers me away from them, his stride powerful and confident.
I feel the eyes of the Elite burning into us as we move toward the center of the room. My heart is thundering, the adrenaline from the confrontation making my vision sharp and electric.
Once we are out of immediate earshot, Deimos slows his pace. He leans down, his lips brushing against my temple in a gesture that looks like a lover’s whisper but feels like a commander’s praise.
"That was a bloodbath, Madeline. I’ve seen men die with more dignity than what you just left of that woman."
