Chapter Nine
Studiously ignoring the boogeymen still gathered near the stage, I’m carefully hunting for signs of the Rox Boys when Smiley O’Sullivan and the Reilly brothers once again steal my attention.
Considering the nature of tonight’s announcement, I’m expecting to find a renewed discord between the rival Mobs. But unlike the vast majority of guests around them, their smiles and postures appear relaxed and confident.
Entirely too unfazed for a group of Irishmen whose driving tenets have always been muintir ar dtús, muintir go deo. Family first, family forever.
That small, uncertain buzzing at the edge of my thoughts starts to grow in intensity. It’s not the usual information overload ache either; it’s the gnawing, gut feeling you get when you know you’ve missed something important.
I startle when Zeus’s hard bicep tucks me in against his side. With lips brushing my temple—hoping to be heard above the swell of the party—he directs my focus in the opposite direction. “Two o’clock, second alcove.”
My eyebrows jump, my mask sliding up a little with the movement. He spotted them before I did?
Before I get a chance to verify, he starts hustling us toward one of the alcoves that are tucked off the atrium’s eastern wall. Both Dionysus and Knox quickly fall into step around us.
“Jesus,” I mutter, trying not to break an ankle as he hauls me along like a man on a mission. I chose these heels for their height advantage, not agility. “Slow down, will you?”
“You want the Suits snatching up the Boys?”
“Of course not,” I huff as my bodice shifts, the boning pressing uncomfortably against my ribs. If he doesn’t slow the fuck down, I’m going to find a way to make him spend twelve hours in this thing and see how he likes it. “But you did find them? How? ”
I’m choosing not to focus on the fact he seems to think they’re holed up in one of the private indulgence rooms.
What do I care if they’ve got two dozen Courtesans in there with them?
I’m not their keeper.
“Miller,” is all he says. He sounds like he’s grinding rocks between his teeth.
“Miller?” I ask, perplexed.
“You’ll see,” D sings.
“Okaaay,” I drawl, just as we reach the veil of crimson gossamer used to screen off the entrance to the alcove. “Should we maybe?—”
Without further preamble, Zeus shoves straight through the flimsy privacy drape, dragging me inside with a taut arm still wrapped around my torso like a bandoleer.
The noise from the main party drops away slightly, the ancient red bricks creating a natural sort of sound chamber for its occupants. The lighting in here is also significantly dimmer than the rest of the building; the deep, red hues lending a more debauched air to the small anteroom that normally only serves as a receiving area for the Court.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust and then another for it to register that there are only the four Rox Boys in front of me, each posted up in a different corner of the room.
And not one of them is engaged in anything remotely illicit—unless, of course, you count Hermes’s outfit.
Dio presses up against my other side, covering up a groan by coughing into his fist. “ See? ”
And Sweet Lady Karma, do I .
I see so well that I’m going to need to upgrade my earlier lingerie situation from Chance of Flash Flooding to Search and Rescue Operation— because I swear they just straight up floated out to sea.
Aside from a pair of decadently skin-tight, leather biker pants, the only thing Lake Miller is wearing is a godsforsaken waist trainer.
Black velvet paneling, strips of intricate brocade framing the fasteners, and a smartly cut underbust.
No undershirt. No overcoat.
Just tailor-made sin that leaves the entire upper torso bare and sets the stage for those caramel button nipples of his to steal the show.
Boys in corsets?
My kryptonite.
“Sabine?” comes Apollo’s terse voice, reminding me why I’m here in the first place. Rude.
“Yeah,” I confirm with a sigh, reluctantly tearing my focus away from his friend’s nipples and reaching up to untie the black silk ribbon holding my feathered disguise in place. “We need to talk.”
Stormy eyes run over my newly exposed features, assessing. They narrow from behind his golden mask when they move onto my companions, taking in both my Enforcers’ protective stances and Zeus’s possessive hold.
When Dionysus blows him a mocking kiss, he steps out from between two loveseats, fists clenched and chin lifted like he’s expecting another confrontation.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “They won’t touch you,” I insist.
Apollo only scoffs, shooting daggers in D’s direction. But I don’t miss the way my words have Hades shifting in my periphery, aura like a cornered animal.
Fuck.
“They won’t touch you— again ,” I clarify, attempting to shoulder both Zeus and Dio away as discreetly as possible.
“ Sabe ,” Zeus warns, lowly.
“Maybe you should step outside and watch the door,” I say to him pointedly. We only have so long before we’ll be expected in the dining hall, and we’re going to get exactly nowhere with all this loose testosterone and caveman posturing.
When their large frames only tense up further, my eyes roll to the heavens. “If either of you growls again, I swear I will have you both fucking neutered.”
“We’re not letting you out of our sight, babygirl,” Dio argues right back. He’s wearing a wicked smirk that I know is purely for the Boys’ benefit.
“No one’s getting in here, you idiot,” I snap. “Now get out, we’re on the clock.”
“That’s not what—” he tries to protest.
“I know it’s not, but I’m safe with them. Trust me . Knox?”
Our Second Enforcer exhales dramatically, then obediently grabs hold of Zeus and Dio by their suit collars and begins tugging them both backward. He despises team conflict, but he’s on my security detail for a reason.
The moment the drape settles back into place behind them, Apollo hisses, “ Who the fuck are they? ”
“Look,” I start, inching toward one of the couches. I choose a spot close to the entrance that lets me keep all four of them in my line of sight and perch myself uncomfortably on the armrest. “It’s a long fucking story—one that I don’t think we have time for right now—but there are some time-sensitive matters that can’t wait.”
Apollo slips his hands into his pockets, bristling. He’s clearly unhappy about the dismissal.
“What sensitive matters?” Ares grunts, and my eyes cut to where he’s glowering at me like a dark cloud. In this lighting, the neatly combed strands of his auburn hair appear almost blood-red, his amber glare now the color of grain whisky.
As soon as his gaze meets mine, he shifts into a defensive stance. Forearms fold tightly across the broad width of his chest, massive biceps trapping the yoke and sleeves of a bespoke tuxedo in a valiant fight for their lives.
My mouth waters, but I have to get this done before one of the Senior Enforcers shows up to drag me off to dinner by my ear.
I slide my focus back to Apollo, watching carefully for his reaction. “Your father, for one. The Labors for another.”
When his face visibly pales, shoulders pulling taut, my spine immediately straightens.
Does he already know?
“What about my father?” The question is purposefully even. Normally, I'd say he had a reasonable poker face, but the stress now written all over his body language gives him right away.
“Your father will most likely be entering you into the trials for the Crown Succession as one of his designated heirs.”
That pulls a startled laugh from his mouth, cracking through some of that cool confidence he was trying to cloak back around himself.
“My father’s a monster, but he’s not part of the Underworld,” he assures me in a derisive tone, with his full chest. Despite only having been around him for a short time, it’s what I like to think of as Classic Sinclair. “Well, not officially, at least. I wouldn’t put it past him if he had dealings. But there’s no proof. Not in his office, anyway.”
In his office ?
Shit .
That means he has no idea, then.
I slump back down, causing my waistline to pinch.
“What?” He frowns at my defeated look. “Why do you look disappointed about that?”
“Why do I look disappointed you don’t believe your father has Underworld connections?” I repeat, not at all sardonically. My fingers lift to my temple, rubbing along the scar there.
“Yes, exactly.” Apollo’s now looking down his nose at me like I’m a petri dish devoid of all intelligent life.
Time to rip off the Band-Aid, I guess.
“Because I thought for a moment there you already knew what I’m about to tell you.” I sigh. “Martin Sinclair isn’t actually your father, my guy.”
The small room is deadly still for only the span of a heartbeat before it explodes with angry Rox Boys. I wince, checking the veiled entrance for signs of my guard dogs, but it seems my own Crew decided to trust me, after all.
I almost feel like a bit of a voyeur then; getting lost for a moment as I watch each of them converge on Apollo. The fierce bonds of their shared brotherhood are palpable, the four of them orbiting each other with the kind of bone-deep familiarity that only found family can.
When I look back up, Ares is right in my space. I gaze up at him from my seat on the armrest.
And up .
Fuck , he’s big.
I’d pay good money to see him and Dio go head-to-head sometime.
“What would you even get out of saying some shit like that, Winters?” he demands. A muscle right below his gold mask jumps. The tattoos kissing his jawline pull with the movement.
“Nothing, actually,” I say, awkwardly pushing up to stand up so he can’t loom over me like a giant wall of muscled formalwear. He still has a couple of inches on me, though, even in these shoes. “And it’s true. I can bring you proof as soon as we’re back in Rox City.”
Unsurprisingly, all four of their expressions remain decidedly skeptical.
“I know you don’t owe me your trust. In fact, you don’t owe me anything ,” I quickly amend when Apollo looks like he’s about to argue with me. “But to be perfectly honest, I don’t owe you anything, either.” My eyes move between them, trying to ignore the powerful effect their combined presence has on me. “I’m only at your Academy to do a job. And no, I wasn’t given a choice in the matter.”
I’m never even given the illusion of choice. Not since the Gray Man sat down across from me on that winter’s day five years ago.
What would that kind of freedom even look like? What would I choose? Who would I choose?
If only one of the choices was not having to choose at all.
“What job?” Ares barks.
“We’ll have to put a pin in that until we get back, but for right now, I need you to listen.”
Apollo steps right up beside Ares, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him and blocking my view of the final two Boys. His eyes are hard as they dart between mine. Probably trying to inspect my face for tells.
Good luck with that.
“Fine,” he eventually agrees, tone laced with frustration. “Then who the fuck is my father?”
My stomach tightens, wishing I knew how much time I had left. I’ll just have to stick with the CliffsNotes version for now.
“Sebastian Grayson.”
“Are you talking about the Mayor of Lexington? That Sebastian Grayson?” Ares sneers, following it up with an uncharacteristic roll of his eyes.
“What else aren’t you telling us?” Apollo prompts when all I do is nod.
“Originally, we didn’t think he’d risk a public confrontation by approaching you this weekend, but the Herald’s decree has just thrown a spanner in the works. Now, there’s every chance he’ll corner you before you leave tonight. Most likely at dinner.”
“Is she fucking kidding with this shit?” Ares spits.
Apollo ignores him, raising his hand in a silent bid for me to continue.
“He probably won’t go so far as to make the big reveal at the dinner table, but he may still invite you to eat with him under the guise of wining and dining you as prospective recruits.”
“You don’t think so? Why not?” Apollo asks, tensely. He looks about ready to crawl out of his skin.
“He doesn’t know that we know, and I don’t know if he’s ready to reveal his hand just yet.”
“And how long have you known?”
“That you were his son? I only found out yesterday. Someone sent your paternity report to Zeus anonymously.”
“Zeus?” His tone sounds oddly strained when he repeats Jax’s callsign.
He’s probably annoyed I didn’t give him the head moniker.
Just more proof of his bloodline.
“Your older brother,” I clarify with a rueful twist of my lips. “The disgraced heir.”
And for the first time, the Head Prefect allows some of the surprise to color his expression rather than defensiveness. “Okay, fuck. So I have a brother.” He blows out a breath. “But none of that explains why a city mayor would be invited to the Symposium—or why he’d be recruiting.”
“Or how you know him.”
The quietly delivered question comes out of nowhere, and my chin jerks up in surprise.
It’s the first time I’ve heard Hermes speak tonight—only his voice is devoid of all the usual roguishness I’ve come to expect from him.
Now that I think about it, there were no playful quips upon our arrival either. No flirty banter. Of course, I’d been too caught up in the theatre of his outfit to notice whether he had a closed posture or a mournful set to his plush mouth. But when I dig into my visual memory banks for a snapshot, it’s all there in high-definition.
A corona of wild curls. A stubborn jawline and the rigid press of bronzed shoulders against red bricks. The new, feverish shine in an already too-bright gaze.
Maybe it’s a lucky thing I can’t see him around Ares’s protective bulk, after all.
I pull in a deep breath through my nose.
B est just to be direct.
“Sebastian Grayson is the Gray Man. And I’m his Librarian.”