Chapter 21 #3
His confession draws me in, piquing my curiosity about what his life might be like.
He’s become one of them yet still doesn’t feel like he belongs, and it’s clear he’s not given up his modesty to match most of their pretentious attitudes.
The tightness in my chest loosens, and it’s the first time I’ve felt at ease all night.
Seeing the angels here set off sirens in my mind, but the danger feels muted right now, knowing Ambrose isn’t far away and I have good company in the meantime.
“I can understand that,” I say, even though I can’t. At least, not from a firsthand perspective. “Are you from around here?”
“Not far. Grew up near the Tennessee state line. I’ve been all over since, but this place always draws you back.”
I shudder. Not me, I think. Once I’m gone I’m never coming back.
“Where do you and Ambrose live?”
“Out in the middle of nowhere,” I answer, sidestepping the question while still technically telling the truth. There’s a note of bitterness in my tone, but I don’t think he notices.
Richard laughs. “Well, I s’pose there are pros and cons to that as much as anything else. How long have y’all been together?”
“Not long, but I knew I’d be stuck with him from the first moment I met him,” I answer through clenches teeth forced into a smile. Again, not technically a lie.
“Love at first sight then,” he jokes, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes me wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Something like that.”
“He’s an interesting guy, that one. Always so secretive.”
I nod, not sure where he’s going with this. “He is.”
“Anything interesting you can share, just between the two of us?” He asks in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly.
“No,” I laugh nervously, “sorry to disappoint.” Ambrose did say most of them think he works for the CIA, so it makes sense there’s an air of mystery around him, but the line of questioning is disconcerting
We switch topics, and I end up asking him more about his work, to which he describes how he founded a non-profit dedicated to helping injured wild animals.
Slowly, I relax into the easy rhythm of our conversation as he explains why this matters to him and how he managed to make it work.
The evident passion he has for his work is endearing.
The rest of the room disappears as we continue to converse, and I realize I’m smiling more than I have in a long time. Richard isn’t just handsome, but clever and caring. I find myself blushing at his frequent yet subtle compliments, just enough to be flirty but not enough to overstep.
In another life, this is the sort of man I could have seen myself being with. Someone with a passion to make the world a better place and the drive to do something about it.
“I’m glad Ambrose brought you,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re the sweetest breath of fresh air I’ve had in a long time.”
“Likewise. I wish I could stay here all night and just talk to you.”
I sense Ambrose’s return before I see him. His presence cuts through the air like a blade sliding into its sheath.
He steps beside me again, offering me one of the glasses of wine he’s holding. His eyes sweep quickly over my flushed face, then flick to Richard, who flashed him a smile.
“Welcome back,” Richard says, as if he hadn’t just been flirting with me for the better part of thirty minutes. Not that I minded.
“I got pulled into another conversation,” Ambrose replies, “But it seems the two of you got on just fine.”
My face warms, even though I did nothing wrong, and Ambrose’s gaze lingers on me for a second too long.
“Come with me,” he says, then tosses a dismissive, “Excuse us,” to Richard.
Well, I guess that’s the end of that conversation.
Before I can ask where or why, he gently takes my hand and pulls me toward the center of the room. We weave through groups of masked guests in conversation, past tables covered with appetizers and wine, and toward the dance floor in the middle of the room.
Ambrose takes my wine glass from my hands and sets it beside his on a mostly empty table.
“What are we doing?”
He doesn’t answer until we’re in the middle of the room, directly beneath the chandelier, and he turns to face me, his hand still wrapped around mine. A few couples dance around us, lost in their own little worlds.
“Dance with me.”
I blink up at him. “Really? And how exactly does that help with whatever mysterious thing you’re supposed to be accomplishing tonight?”
He flashes me a sheepish grin. “It doesn’t. I’m just selfish, and I can pretend you’re mine, at least for tonight.”
The words hit me with more force than expected, pressing against the walls I keep carefully built up around my heart—the ones that are cracking and crumbling more each day. I hesitate only a second longer before placing my free hand in his, letting him guide the other to his shoulder.
He pulls me into him, and I can’t think of anything beside how close we are. The last time we were this close, he was holding a knife to my throat.
His hand on my waist is possessive, his fingers pressing through the fabric of my dress like he’s been waiting all night to touch me like this.
His warm, woodsy scent envelops me, I’m aware of everything: the way the silk of my gown slides against his suit coat, the brush of my leg against his as we shift, the burn of his gaze when it finds mine.
The way he’s so gentle yet entirely in control, leading me through the dance with a soft sort of dominance.
We sway in time with the music, and I try to keep my mind from wandering. If I close my eyes and forget about the circumstances that led me here, I can almost pretend I want this.
The rhythm pulls us into a trance, and everything else in the room disappears, like the world’s folded in around us. All that exists in this moment is the swell of the music and the press of his warm, strong body against mine.
For this brief, ephemeral moment, I allow myself to let go of all the fear and worry and resentment.
His words from moments ago echo in my head. “I can pretend you’re mine, at least for tonight.” They tug at something in my chest that I desperately try to ignore.
The slow melody fades and transitions into something more lively, and Ambrose pulls away a couple of inches to look down at me. His eyes are dark with a range of conflicting emotions, though I can’t tell what. They seem to shift from affectionate to hurt to guarded in a fraction of a second.
My heart slams against my ribcage as he leans down and places a gentle kiss on the top of my head. It’s such a simple gesture, but it quickens my pulse as if I’ve just run a mile.
His gaze flicks up over my head toward the back of the room, and his expression hardens for a fraction of a second. It’s so quick that I could have imagined it, but I’ve become more attuned to his expressions over the last few weeks, so I don’t think that’s the case.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, my pet,” he murmurs. The nickname is spoken with such softness and affection this time that it doesn’t annoy me as much as it usually does. “Get some food, drink some wine, and wait for me in here, okay?”
I nod in agreement, though curiosity nags at me. He clearly has something to deal with tonight, but he still won’t tell me what. I follow him to the table of hors d’oevres at the edge of the grand ballroom, and once I’ve taken a small plate, Ambrose stalks across the room and out the back doors.
So dramatic.
Snagging another glass of wine from the servers, I take a seat at an empty table against the wall where I can face the room to people-watch.
It’s disconcerting to see so many people without having the ability to analyze their expressions through their masks.
I take my time eating and sipping my wine, but I frequently glance toward the back doors, hoping Ambrose will stride through them at any moment.
Eventually, I give up and instead search for Richard in the crowd, though that also feels futile given the sheer number of men dressed so similarly to him.
Loneliness creeps in the longer I sit, and the emotional whiplash of the last few days is, once again, making it impossible to relax.
Every muscle in my body tenses when two figures slide into the seats directly beside me, one on each side.
I don’t even have to see their faces to know it’s them. The angels.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing toward the back doors in search of Ambrose.
I’m not sure if I want him to come in or stay out.
If he walks in now, he might suspect I’ve been talking to them and considering selling him out.
On the other hand, the angels still raise my hackles, as if some primal part of me considers them to be predators.
And while Ambrose probably wouldn’t have any problem killing me for his own sake, I have no doubt he’d also protect me from other immortal beings.
“Trying to gather the information we need, since your hesitation to help us seems to be persisting,” Samuel answers. As always, the other man says nothing.
“And why would you decide to come here? Is there something special about tonight?”
The men exchange a weighted glance. “Maybe. Maybe not. That depends on what Ambrose is doing at the present moment. Maybe you should go find him.”
“I told him I would wait in here,” I argue, but even as I say it, unease gnaws at my gut.
“And don’t you think there might be a reason for that? Something he may not want you to see?”
The warm glow of emotion I’d been feeling only half an hour earlier has dissipated completely. They could be lying, I remind myself. But something tells me they’re not. Ambrose has been flighty all night. There’s something he’s not telling me.
Samuel speaks again. “Go see for yourself. We’ll see you in two weeks.” Without another word, they both stand and disappear into the crowd, leaving me alone and prickling with anxiety.
I wipe my clammy palms on my dress before I stand and make my way toward the back doors. One couple lounges on the chairs to my left, but they hardly seem to notice me as I walk past them and toward the garden area.
As I approach the hedge maze, muffled voices sound from somewhere inside. Both are men, though I can’t make out the words they’re saying.
As quietly as possible, I tiptoe through the maze in the direction of the voices. They’re growing increasingly more severe as the argument intensifies, and I catch a few words.
“Please don’t,” one man begs. That one definitely isn’t Ambrose. I can tell by his tone.
The response is a growled question, though I can’t make out the words. One thing is clear, though: It’s Ambrose.
The other man mutters something, but it doesn’t seem to be the answer Ambrose is looking for, because he repeats the question.
The man is stammering and begging now, and my stomach sinks.
Before I can consider the weight of my actions, I stride forward and turn the corner to find the two men standing there.
Ambrose has the man’s back against his chest, with one arm reaching around to hold a gleaming knife to his throat while the other pins his arms behind his back.
The knife flashes in the moonlight as he swipes it to the side, slitting the man’s throat in one sharp motion. He falls to the ground with a heavy thud, and Ambrose’s gaze raises to me just as I recognize the man collapsed against the shrubbery.
Richard. His face is paling more with each second that passes, his eyes glassy. Streams of thick blood spill down his neck, seeping into the crisp white dress shirt beneath his suit jacket.
I can’t look away.
The one person in this godforsaken place that’s made me laugh tonight is dead.
“What did you do?” I whisper. Tears well in my eyes as I stare down at the lifeless body.
Ambrose is silent.
“What did you do?” I repeat, though now my voice is louder and wracked with anger. It seems hypocritical to hate Ambrose for killing a man who’s practically a stranger to me considering that I’ve killed once and will likely kill again, but I can’t imagine why this was necessary.
He was so sweet, so kind, and it’s been years since I’ve laughed with someone like I did with him. I may have only known him for an hour, but sharp pain strikes my chest at seeing him dead. Another tiny glimmer of happiness that’s been taken away as quickly as it came.
I stare at Ambrose, waiting for a reply, some sort of explanation to make this better.
Maybe he really does kill for pleasure or greed.
Or maybe it was a weird sense of possession or entitlement to me.
That would make sense given the way he pulled me away to dance after seeing Richard hit on me.
Is he reactive enough—or does he care enough—that he’d kill another man for flirting with me? Because that would be fucking insane.
Whatever it is, the horror and disgust are blatant in my expression, because Ambrose glares right back at me, the bloodied knife still hanging in his hand and the body of a dead man at his feet.
“I killed him,” he finally says in response to my question, his voice devoid of emotion.
“But why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” I answer, though my voice cracks. “How could you do something like this?”
He lets out a harsh laugh that makes my blood run cold. Even on the night he tricked me into making a deal with him, he wasn’t this vitriolic.
“Does it even matter if I attempt to justify his death? No matter what I say, I’ll always be a monster in your eyes.”
He stalks out of the maze without another word, flicking the knife closed and shoving it into his pants pocket, and I force myself to follow him, if only to not be stuck in a dark garden with a dead body.
As soon as I find my way to the open garden, I promptly lean against a statue and heave, emptying the contents of my stomach against the concrete sculpture. It’s one thing to kill a person who’s been harming people, but it’s another to murder a man who runs a charity and lights up a room.
Maybe he did do something terrible, but if Ambrose won’t explain to me why he killed this man, then I can’t help but assume it’s unjustified.
Why else wouldn’t he tell me? It’s not like he’s hid his nature from me before.
Maybe I was stupid to believe that his intelligence and bouts of kindness meant he was a good person deep down.
But he’s right; he is a monster. I see that more clearly than ever, and turning his secrets over to the angels to prevent him from killing more is beginning to seem like a reasonable option.