Trap at the Opera

​POV: Jarrah

​The velvet collar of my bespoke tuxedo sat heavy against the base of my neck, rigid as iron armour. Beside me, Malia pulled her dark silk wrap tighter across her shoulders, her breathing steady, controlled, and utterly deceptive. To the hundred eyes scanning our private box from the gilded stalls of the Melbourne Arts Centre below, we were Melbourne’s most untouchable power couple: flawless, poised, and dripping in sickening wealth.

​To me, we were live bait in a gilded cage.

​"You're holding your breath, Jarrah," Malia whispered, her head tilting toward mine as if sharing an intimate joke. The delicate scent of amber and crushed jasmine drifted off her throat, sharp enough to pierce through the heavy perfume of the auditorium.

​"I’m calculating," I murmured back, taking her hand and brushing my thumb over her knuckles with deliberate, practiced devotion. Her skin was cool, but under the surface, I felt the rapid pulse hammering against her inner wrist. "Three members of the executive board are present tonight. Vance in Box Four, Henderson in the dress circle, and Sterling sitting three rows behind the orchestra."

​"And one of them sold the company’s core logistics network to the Syndicate," she said, her smile remaining fixed for the cameras flashing occasionally from the lower tier. "Are you certain the receiver is built into the lapel pin?"

​"It’s in Vance’s lapel," I replied, leaning closer until my lips almost brushed the rim of her ear. The closeness was a performance, but the heat radiating off her skin hit me like a physical force. My blood stirred a dangerous, unwanted distraction in a room full of wolves. "Our tech team intercepted his frequency five minutes ago. The wiretap is live. All we need now is for him to open his mouth and place the confirmation call during the high notes of the second aria."

​The house lights dimmed to a rich amber, signaling the start of the performance. Below us, the orchestra swelled, the deep groan of the cellos vibrating through the hardwood floors of the Arts Centre. The atmosphere turned suffocating.

​Malia rested her hand on my knee. The slit of her emerald gown fell open slightly, exposing a pale length of thigh against the dark velvet upholstery. I felt my jaw tighten. I placed my palm over her hand, feeling the silk of her dress and the heat beneath it. It was slow torture standing on the edge of a blade with a woman I would tear the world apart to protect, while having to pretend that every touch was merely for show.

​"Look at Vance," Malia murmured, her gaze fixing on the darkened curve of Box Four across the balcony.

​I shifted my eyes toward Vance. The board member was sitting back, but his right hand was hovering near his collar. In the shadows behind him, a tall, thick-set figure stood in the alcove of his private door.

​My spine locked.

​That wasn't a standard venue guard. The posture was wrong: feet planted too wide, right shoulder slightly dropped to compensate for a concealed shoulder holster.

​"We have a problem," I muttered, keeping my voice down to a low rasp as the soprano took the stage below. "Vance didn't come here just to sell us out. He brought heavy security. Or a handler."

​"If they realize the frequency is being bridged, they'll terminate the connection," Malia said, her voice dropping an octave, laced with cold precision. "And if they realize we bridged it..."

​"They won't," I gritted out. "Stay behind me, Malia."

​"Don't order me around, Jarrah," she replied instantly, her fingers tightening around mine with a strength that defied her delicate frame. "I am not sitting in the corner while you play target."

​The orchestra reached a sudden, violent crescendo. Above the thunderous brass, a microscopic click sounded through the tiny earpiece concealed inside my ear canal.

​“Bridge established,” my security chief's voice crackled softly through the static. “We have Vance’s audio. He’s speaking into the lapel microphone right now.”

​I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the brass railing of the box, masking my intensity beneath the guise of an engaged arts patron. Malia matched my posture, leaning into my shoulder. Her bare shoulder brushed against my chest, her warmth cutting through the chill of my suit. For a second, the operational reality blurred; the urge to pull her away from this madness, to wrap my arms around her and shield her from the venomous atmosphere of this room, nearly overwhelmed me.

​“...The transfer will be finalized by midnight,” Vance’s muted, distorted voice echoed in my ear over the wiretap. “Jarrah thinks he’s hunting a ghost. By the time the third act begins, the board will be restructured. Eliminate the girl if she gets in the way.”

​Cold, absolute rage flared behind my ribs, turning my blood to liquid nitrogen. I didn't flinch. I couldn't.

​Malia must have felt the sudden rigidity in my frame. Her eyes flicked to mine in the dark, dark and searching, asking the question without uttering a sound.

​"He's giving the order," I breathed, my voice barely audible above the rising aria.

​Across the abyss of the auditorium, the shadow behind Vance moved. A red optic glint no larger than a pinprick flickered briefly against the velvet curtain of our box, drifting slowly down the wood paneling, searching.

​"Get down," I commanded beneath my breath, my hand clamping around Malia's waist, anchoring her to me as the opera reached its peak.