It's the scent—orange blossom with a hint of spice and jasmine.
It is subtle at first, a faint undertone beneath the heavy perfumes and celebratory effluvia of the ballroom. A primal, unmistakable note that floods my senses, cutting off the noise, extinguishing the laughter, silencing the music. It's the scent of the woman who nearly ended my life, the scent of fresh blood from the club, etched into my very being, even now. But I never forgot it. I couldn't. It was the last thing I thought I'd smell before darkness.
My body jolts, an involuntary spasm of recognition. My chest tightens, clenching like a fist around my heart. A prickling sensation flares across my skin, and the scars—the deep, jagged lines where the blade found peace—begin to throb with a soft, insistent ache. While taking deep, sharp, involuntary breath.
All the party's noise fades into a distant, creating a muffled hum. My vision narrows, tunneling until the vibrant chaos of the ballroom becomes a blur of irrelevant color. My focus condenses, locks onto the source of that singular, terrifying familiar scent.
My initial smile, which lingers on my lips as I speak with Master Chen, vanishes, replaced by a cold intensity that spreads through my face like ice. My jaw clenches, hard enough to ache. I wasn't panicking. I had returned to an overwhelming drive of a predator, scenting its prey after a long, arduous hunt. I am a tracking animal, reduced to pure, raw instinct.
Marek, standing a few feet away, a shadow amidst the light, catches my eye. His gaze, always sharp, shifts to mine. Enzo, flank on my other side, subtly straightens, his hand drifting imperceptibly towards his concealed weapon. They've both seen the flicker, the almost faint shift in my demeanor. They know and wait for my command, with a silent, and a lethal question in their eyes.
But I don't give one. Because this is mine.
I won't let her get away again, or allow anyone else to touch her.
My muscles coil as I begin to move, a slow, deliberate pivot at first, then a swift, silent push into the milling crowd.
Frantically.
The party becomes a maze. Bodies, laughing faces, clinking glasses, all become obstacles in my path. I weave through the throng, pushing past shoulders, excusing myself with curt nods that hide the desperation in my eyes. I need to get to her, before the scent fades, before she melts back into the shadows. My true intent must remain hidden. Appearing as merely a host, mingling among his guests. But beneath that veneer, is a hunter rages.
As I get closer, the scent grows stronger, leading me deeper into the heart of the crowd, towards the periphery where the light is softer, the shadows longer. My eyes dart, searching for that fleeting image, the one I saw at the club.
A flash of movement. A glimpse of a slender back disappearing between two large figures. Dark hair, sleek and straight. A subtle movement, a fluid grace that resonates with the deadly agility I remember from that night. It's Her. It has to be her.
I accelerate, a focused burst of speed. I'm almost there. My hand instinctively reaches out, prepared to grip her arm, to pull her out of the crowd, to finally look into the eyes of the woman who dared to leave a brand on me and keeps outsmarting our lookout.
Suddenly, an unexpected impact. A jolt to my arm, accompanied with a splash of liquid, and a startled exclamation.
"Oh! My apologies, Don De Luna! So clumsy of me!"
A nervous, red-faced man stumbles back, his hand still holding a now-empty champagne flute, droplets clinging to my jacket sleeve. A genuine mistake. A perfectly timed, utterly infuriating mistake.
My focus, which is momentarily fractured, snaps back to the spot where she was.
Empty.
She's gone!
An instantaneous wave of fury washes over me. It roars in my ears, a sound louder than the orchestra, louder than the laughter. My jaw clenches, a harsh grinding sound. The tension of an uncontrollable surge of primal rage that had coiled within me for weeks, finally breaks free.
I push through the last few bewildered party-goers, my steps heavier and less controlled. I spot a discreet side door, leading to one of the smaller, private studies, without hesitation, I throw the door open, step inside, and slam it shut behind me, the muffled thud was a pathetic counterpoint to the storm raging inside me.
The room is dark, silent, a sanctuary of my own making. I pace once, twice. Then, with a roar that tears through my throat, I slam my fist down onto the heavy oak desk that dominates the room. The impact reverberates into my trembling body, a dull thud that echoes the violent tremor in my own body.
"DAMN IT!" The curse rips from my lips, FUUCCK, it is raw and unfiltered. "DAMN HER!"
My chest heaves, each breath a struggle. I run both hands through my hair, gripping the strands tightly, pulling as if to yank the frustration from my skull. My eyes squeeze shut, the image of that disappearing back burned into my mind. So close. So damn close.
I breathe, deep, ragged breaths, forcing myself to calm down. The anger is a powerful current, but I cannot drown in it. Not now. Not when she is here, beneath my roof. The hunt is not over. It has just begun.
I push off the desk, take off my suit jacket, and take another steadying breath. My face recomposes, the cold mask sliding back into place. My eyes, though still burning with a dangerous light, regain their composure.
When I step back into the main ballroom, the chaos of the party washes over me once more, but it no longer feels entertaining. It feels like a hunting ground.
I spot Gabriel across the room, so I decide to move towards him. He is speaking to someone, a young woman. As I draw closer, my steps silent on the carpet.
A girl who looks so familiar. Too familiar.
Black hair cascades down her back, like a sleek, dark curtain that seems to absorb the light. Her skin is pale, almost luminous, a stark contrast to the darkness of her gown. It's a black gown, simple yet elegant, decorated with tiny silver diamonds that catch the light like scattered stars. A delicate slit runs down the entirety of her back, ending alluringly at her waistline, hinting at the slender curves beneath.
And her eyes.
Blue
A piercing, intelligent, utterly captivating blue eyes. One I'm sure is the same that I saw only a glimpse of that night, illuminated by the flashing lights of the club. The eyes of the woman who held a blade to my throat, who looked at me with an almost divine beauty even as she tried to steal my last breath.
My breath hitches, even the air itself seems to thicken around me. All the fragmented memories, the glimpses, the tantalizing scent—they coalesce into this single, breathtaking vision. This beauty in all her glory, a divine. A death avenger.
I reach Gabriel, my smile back in place. I extend my hand, my gaze polite, yet unwavering. My eyes locked onto her frame, never leaving her. Not even for a split second.
"Don Gabriel," I say, my voice smooth, steady, betraying none of the earthquake raging within me. "A pleasure as always."
It is Her. It has to be.
I've to make sure she's Butterfly.