In the Name of the Game

Chapter 6

By the time Friday rolled around, Elara had packed and repacked her bag four times.

She wasn't even sure what you were supposed to bring to something like this. Jeans? A ball gown? A bulletproof vest? In the end, she settled on her usual: dark jeans, a worn leather jacket, and a couple of plain tops. Practical. Unremarkable. Forgettable.

Not that anyone ever forgot her. Not really. Not when she kept finding herself in situations like this.

The coordinates led to an airfield three hours outside the city. Not an airport—an airfield. No terminals, no metal detectors, no TSA. Just a stretch of cracked asphalt, a private hangar, and a small jet with blacked-out windows already waiting on the tarmac.

If this was a kidnapping, they were doing an excellent job.

She stepped out of the cab and slung her bag over one shoulder, heart pounding so loud she was half-sure the pilot could hear it from the cockpit. But the man standing by the stairs just smiled. Same silver cufflinks. Same tailored suit. Same British accent when he spoke.

"Elara Quinn," he greeted, like they were old friends instead of strangers meeting on an abandoned runway. "Right on time. You're the last to arrive."

"Lucky me," she replied dryly.

He gestured toward the jet. "If you'll follow me. We've a bit of a journey ahead."

Her boots echoed against the metal steps as she climbed on board. The interior wasn't flashy, but it wasn't simple either. Soft leather seats, polished wood trim, and a long table down the center scattered with folders, manila envelopes, and glass decanters that looked far too expensive for their own good.

And they weren't alone.

Six other people were already seated.

Elara's gaze flicked over them fast, cataloguing everything before she had time to second-guess herself. A girl in a sharp red blazer with ice-blonde hair and sharper cheekbones. A guy in faded Converse and a hoodie, slouched like he'd rather be anywhere else. A set of twins with matching dark curls and matching smirks. A boy her age with dark skin and an unreadable expression, flipping a coin between his fingers like he was born with it there.

And—

Her pulse skipped.

One of the guys sat with practiced ease, shoulders slouched, long fingers tapping a rhythm on the armrest like he was the only one in on the joke. He had sandy blond hair that curled slightly at the ends, a sharp jawline, and a smile that could slice straight through you if you weren't careful.

He didn't glance her way right away — but when he did, it was with a gaze like he already knew exactly who she was.

And just like that, Elara's carefully-built calm wavered. Whoever this was, he was dangerous in a way she couldn't quite name yet. Not brute force. Not obvious threat. Something subtler. Like he could make you think jumping off a cliff was your own idea.

She swallowed hard and dropped into the empty seat across from him, folding her arms and raising a brow like she wasn't about to spontaneously combust.

His smile curled wider, sharp and full of teeth.

"Well," he drawled. "This just got interesting."