Chapter 21 #2
Ambrose’s eyes skate over my body, and he opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something but closes it again before any words slip past.
I raise my eyebrows at him in a silent challenge, and his lips twist into a sultry smile.
“You look ravishing,” he purrs, wrapping his arm back around my waist
“I look like a harlot.”
“I’m inclined to disagree, though I’ll admit the word ‘sinful’ does come to mind…”
I huff out an exasperated breath, and he simply smirks and leads me into the ballroom.
Ambrose glides effortlessly through the room with a possessive hand on my lower back the entire time, whirling through smooth introductions.
I manage to smile and say polite hellos despite the constant nagging sensation of feeling like an impostor, but it’s difficult for me to pay attention to any of the people I meet—as important as they may be—because the gothic elegance of the decor in this massive mansion is breathtaking.
The ballroom feels like a shadowed dream.
Dim chandeliers dripping with crystal hang from the high ceilings, capturing the light of the hundreds of candles that flicker throughout the room in iron sconces and elaborate candelabras.
The warm, heavy scent of cinnamon and cloves permeates the air of the grandiose ballroom.
A string quartet tucked into a recessed alcove plays a slow, haunting piece music that sounds vaguely familiar. There must be over a hundred people here, milling about amongst the tables that line the outer edges of the room or dancing in the open center of the ballroom.
A server in a black suit and white gloves approaches, offering a silver tray lined with glasses of dark wine. I take one, twisting the delicate glass stem between my fingers, and take a sip. The wine is a deep, dark red, not unlike the color of my dress, and tastes like blackberries.
“I want you to see the garden,” Ambrose says once we’ve walked away from what feels like the dozenth person he’s introduced me to.
I glance at him, but his mask hides whatever expression he wears. I nod, and with one last glance at the room that feels like it belongs in a Southern gothic fever dream, I follow him through a pair of towering glass doors draped in thick, damask curtains the color of dried blood.
The moment we step outside, the chilly air wraps around my bare shoulders, though heat lamps are stationed in a semi-circle around the seating area. Beyond that is the garden, though I can’t quite see it past the glowing orange heating lamps.
Ambrose guides me with a hand at the small of my back, and I shiver, though whether it’s from his touch or the cold night air, I’m not sure.
We follow a stone path off the concrete patio, and the dark garden fades into view.
It stretches across the backyard, wide and winding, lit with hundreds of tiny lanterns strung through gnarled trees and lining the stone paths. The hedge walls curve and twist in a labyrinth of greenery, and whispers float through the air from somewhere in the maze.
Ambrose leads me down a path where the grass is slick with dew and the trees loom overhead.
I should be afraid, something in the back of my mind says. Alone with him, in a strange place, hidden in the darkness.
But I’m not. Something strangely pleasant is humming through my veins, and it’s not because of the wine.
“Why did you bring me out here?” I ask as he sits on a creaky wooden bench and motions for me to join him.
“I thought you might enjoy it,” he answers. “It’s peaceful out here, and I could feel how tense you were inside with all those people.”
I sink onto the bench beside him and cross my arms over my chest, trying to ward off the chill. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I know you have some sort of task to accomplish here tonight; I don’t mean to pull you away from it just because I’m awkward around people.”
“You’re nothing of the sort,” he says, shrugging off his suit coat and draping it over my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I murmur, pulling the warm fabric around my bare arms. “It’s just hard to feel comfortable in a place like this.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t belong here. All these rich, important people making a difference in the world, and I’m just… me.”
“You’re more important than you give yourself credit for.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, skeptical. “Right.”
“It’s true. You belong here just as much as any of them do.”
“Try telling them that,” I grumble. Coming here has only exacerbated the notion that I don’t belong in a place like this. Awkwardly sidestepping questions about what I do for work, pretending I understand any of their lighthearted jokes about the stock market.
“I don’t need to convince them of anything. Their opinions mean nothing to me. Besides, half the people here are simply pretending to know what they’re talking about. I’ll tell you a secret: faking confidence and having confidence are the same exact thing. Nobody knows the difference.”
I shake my head at him, but I have to admit what he’s saying makes sense to some degree.
The silence between us after my confession and his reassurance is heavy, drowning out the hum of noise coming from the backyard and suspending us in the moment.
Ambrose watches me with that unreadable expression again, but this time, it feels as if he’s studying me, trying to figure out something he doesn’t quite understand.
Then, without a word, he stands and offers a hand. I hesitate only a second before placing mine in his.
We meander through the winding garden paths, the lantern light catching in the dark sheen of his hair and painting golden strokes along the line of his jaw beneath the dark mask covering the upper half of his face. His ethereal beauty is striking tonight, even with his face partially obscured.
Ambrose doesn’t speak much, and neither do I, but the tall hedges towering over us seem to press us closer together. His fingers graze mine once, and I’m not sure if it’s an accident or a silent question.
I don’t allow myself to consider the possibility of actually taking his hand—that would be too close to admitting defeat in this twisted game we’re playing.
Eventually, he guides me back toward the mansion, and I try not to feel disappointed as we approach the glass doors.
We step inside, the warm air encircling me like a blanket, when a man approaches Ambrose to say hello.
That’s when I see them.
My blood runs cold and I freeze in place, though I do my best to appear calm. Two men stand at the far end of the room near the bottom of one of the staircases. They’re dressed differently, in suits and masks instead of casual white clothing, but their aura is unmistakable.
The angels.
Samuel meets my stare across the distance with his icy blue eyes, and my pulse is like thunder in my ears.
But then he lifts a single finger to his lips in a silent gesture for me to stay quiet, and my stomach drops like a cold, hard stone.
Why are they here?
Ambrose is still chatting casually with the man beside him, oblivious to what just transpired.
I force myself to tear my gaze away from the angels, shifting to face Ambrose and the man he’s speaking to even as panic threatens to overtake me.
The man notices my movement and turns slightly toward me with a warm, easy smile, like he’s been patiently waiting for me to join their conversation.
He looks to be in his late thirties, handsome but relaxed, and he gives off the impression he’s simply here to enjoy the party rather than to impress everyone else.
It’s a refreshing change of pace from the others I’ve met tonight.
“Brielle,” Ambrose says, catching my hesitation and gesturing me forward. “This is Richard, a friend of mine.”
He holds out his hand for a handshake, and I take it, hoping my firm grip hides my trembling.
“Nice to meet you,” I recite for what feels like the millionth time tonight.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Richard has a soft accent that adds to that gentlemanly sense of southern charm he radiates. “Ambrose hasn’t mentioned you, but I can see why; he must want to keep you all to himself.”
I smile in spite of myself as Ambrose chuckles beside me, though his hand curls into a fist at his side. “You caught me,” he says.
I cast my eyes back in the direction of the staircase, but the angels are gone. A chill runs down my spine that makes me certain they’re still watching from the shadows.
“I hate to step away,” Ambrose remarks, his hand brushing my hip, “but I should use the restroom and grab us both another glass of wine.”
“No problem,” I answer, even as anxiety buzzes like static under my skin.
Ambrose walks away, leaving me alone with Richard. He leans casually against the wall pillar behind him with his hands tucked into his pockets, and I prepare myself for another awkward conversation, though this time without Ambrose around to do the smooth talking.
“You doing alright?” he asks softly. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost a minute ago.”
My eyes shift toward the staircase again, but it’s empty.
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, then immediately regret it. I exhale, trying to shake the tension in my shoulders. “It’s just been a long night.”
He nods sympathetically. “You and me both. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in places like this.”
I cast him an incredulous look. “Really? I mean, me either, but that’s because I actually don’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me. But no, I had a rough start in life, so this sort of extravagance feels foreign sometimes. Even though I have money now, it still feels a bit like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”