Chapter 6: Paige
I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the girl reflected back at me. She looks put together, polished, like she’s in complete control. But I know better.
My shirt is a thin, black material that dips low at the front, hugging my shoulders and collarbones, designed to distract, to hold attention. It’s the kind of shirt my father insists on—something that says I’m a weapon just as much as I am a charm, something meant to unsettle and weaken. It stops just above my hips, leaving the skin on my lower back exposed, the two small dimples above my jeans visible.
The low-rise jeans are dark, expensive, hugging close to my legs. I feel their weight with every step, like they’re dragging me down. I don’t dress like this for me—I never do. This isn’t about my comfort. It’s about the message my father wants to send, the edge he thinks my appearance will give us.
Gold jewelry glints against my skin. A pair of small hoops, two layered necklaces, rings I barely feel but know they’ll see. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, sleek and tight, every strand in place. It’s just another layer of the disguise, another way to keep them from seeing anything real. A mask of indifference that I’ve learned to wear too well.
Today’s meeting will be brutal; I can feel it like a weight pressing on my chest. The stakes are higher than usual, whispers of territory and retaliation, an edge in my father’s tone when he briefed me earlier. He didn’t give specifics, just a stern reminder to be “on my best.” Which means one thing: there’s more to this than even he’s letting on.
I run my fingers along the edge of my sleeves, smoothing the fabric, grounding myself for what’s coming. I breathe in, steadying my gaze in the mirror. I look the part—the poised, untouchable translator. The Crimson Circle’s perfect pawn. The girl who’s learned to be everything and nothing at once.
But deep down, I hate every inch of this, every stitch of this performance.
With a last glance at my reflection, I turn, steeling myself as I step away from the mirror. The men in that room won’t see any of it. They’ll see exactly what my father wants them to see—a girl whose presence is meant to unnerve and manipulate. And by the end of the day, they’ll be right where he wants them.
The drive feels endless, a path winding through miles of empty land, too far from Alderstone, too far from either side’s home turf. It’s strange, really, that this meeting is taking place somewhere so remote, where no one has the upper hand. I sit in the back seat, staring out the window, tension knotting my stomach. I can’t place why, but something feels off.
When we finally pull up to the building, a nondescript concrete structure that looks more like an abandoned warehouse than a meeting place, the feeling of unease only deepens. We walk inside, my father and the other men from the Crimson Circle moving ahead of me, their expressions hard, grim. I follow, keeping my back straight, hands clasped in front of me, every inch of my face carefully blank, like I’ve been taught.
Inside the room, the Crimson Circle men begin setting up, hiding weapons in the corners, under chairs, tucking them discreetly by the table legs. I glance at my father, catching the tension in his face as he looks around, then at the other men from our side. What do they think is going to happen here?
I swallow, forcing myself to stay still, to remain calm. Whatever this is, I’m here to translate, nothing more. I know my role. I know what I am to them—a tool, nothing else. So I take my place at the back, half-shielded by shadow, and wait.
One by one, the men from the Black Vipers start filing in, and a chill runs through me. I’ve heard rumors about them—their reputation is nearly as dark as my own gang’s, if not worse. They’re brutal, infamous for their ruthlessness, and I feel a prickle of anxiety climb my spine as they take their seats across the table from our men. The tension between them is almost tangible, stretching thin as a wire.
One of the Viper men passes close to me, a nasty grin cutting across his face as he leans close, muttering something low and vulgar into my ear. I feel the familiar flicker of disgust, but I keep my face impassive, mask firmly in place, ignoring him.
Then another man steps through the door, and the room seems to shift around him. He’s tall, well over six feet, and built like something out of a legend—broad shoulders, a strong, imposing frame, with dark, close-cropped hair. He has the kind of face that’s as striking as it is dangerous, every angle sharp, every line perfect. He smiles as he spots me, a flash of white teeth, a look that could almost be charming if I didn’t know who he was.
“Must be Paige,” he says, his voice smooth and confident. He reaches for my hand, and I force myself to let him take it, to hold his gaze without flinching as he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles. A blush fights to rise to my cheeks, but I keep it down, every bit of my training focused on holding my face still, indifferent.
Several of the Crimson Circle men stand, fists clenched, a threatening look in their eyes, but Silas just smirks, unbothered, and eases back into his chair, still watching me with that glint of amusement in his eye. He’s confident, even cocky. And, as he turns away, I feel a strange mix of anger and unease settle into my stomach. There are hardly ever young men like him in these meetings—men who walk in as if they own the room.
But then the air shifts again, colder this time, and I look up.
A figure stands in the doorway, framed by the shadow, taller and somehow darker than the others. The Crimson Circle men straighten, tension snapping tight as they turn to face him. It’s like they’re recoiling, like they know the danger he brings with him.
And then I hear his name.
“Jaxon Steele.”
The name is barely spoken, but the effect ripples through the room. I go still, my pulse fluttering as I watch him approach, every movement calculated, as if he’s prowling rather than walking. He’s tall, at least six foot four, with dark brown hair that falls just a bit over his forehead, a bit of stubble shadowing his jaw. Tattoos cover nearly every inch of visible skin—his arms, his neck, even the faint lines I can see under his collar, hinting at more ink over his chest and back. The black suit he’s wearing is perfectly tailored, emphasizing every cut of muscle, every line of strength. He’s a masterpiece of violence, contained just enough to be mistaken for a man.
As he strides forward, the Crimson Circle men step into his path, their anger flashing, fists clenched. They’re muttering threats, growling insults, demanding to know what he’s doing here. But he barely looks at them, his eyes a piercing, steel-gray, flat and emotionless.
One look from him—one cold, silent look—and they step back, breaking eye contact, the rage dimming into caution. Jaxon Steele barely even acknowledges them as he continues, his eyes sweeping the room until, finally, they land on me.
The chill deepens, prickling over my skin as he stares, his gaze flat, unreadable. But the message is clear: he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, to kill anyone here, if the meeting takes a single wrong turn.
I tighten my grip on my hands, forcing myself to hold his gaze, to pretend that I’m unaffected by the weight of his attention. But as his stare hardens, I can’t shake the feeling that something has already gone wrong—and that whatever’s coming next, there’s no way to stop it.