Vivianne didn't sit. She paced the length of the Persian rug, her fingers tracing the smooth, heavy brass of the wolf’s head paperweight she still held.Thirty guards. Evan had lined them up along the corridor—men in tactical gear, their faces hidden behind matte-black visors, their loyalty bought and paid for by the heir’s personal accounts. But as she stared at the locked double doors, she couldn't erase the memory of the two assassins who had breached his bedroom the night before. They had used codes. They had passed through security like ghosts.If Seraphine was right, the person who gave them those codes wasn't an Elder. It was someone closer.A sharp, metallic click broke her train of thought.It didn't come from the main hallway. It came from the dressing room—the small, private alcove where Evan kept his ceremonial attire and the wall-safes containing the family’s minor ledgers.Vivianne’s heart kicked against her ribs. She lowered her hand, letting the brass paperweight rest