Chapter 4
4
ALARIC
G od, I hate things like this. I’m supposed to enjoy it. The show of wealth and exclusivity. Being part of the rich crowd and welcomed only for my bank account and power and not the merit of my personality or humility.
But growing up poor as I did, these sorts of engagements feel more like a hit of my favorite drug than something I’d attend willingly. I need this. This validation that everything I’ve worked for and sacrificed has not been for nothing.
I earned this.
“Your key, sir?” the man at the door says with a cold, lifeless expression. I reach into my pocket, retrieving the skeleton key sent with the invitation. Handing it over, I watch as he inspects it briefly before stepping inside and welcoming me into the dark, sprawling space.
It’s already crowded with guests, most of them mingling in their secluded groups and pairs. I came alone, as I always do.
But for some reason, my mind flickers to Violet. There was a time last year when she made her visits to my home somewhat frequent. I enjoyed it. Not just the sex—although, who at my age would complain about a beautiful twenty-one-year-old spreading her legs for them? But it was her company too.
Violet is bold and fearless. You have to be to survive in our world. I appreciate that about her.
I knew her stepfather briefly, enough to know he was a selfish, cruel, abusive man. He had four women under his thumb, and as harsh as our society can be, no one I work with condones that sort of shit. If you hurt women, children, or innocents, you’re not worthy of our business.
What a pity he had that heart attack.
I sleep better at night knowing he got what was coming to him, and I hope his last moments were painful.
If that makes me a monster, so be it.
I do a turn of the room, grabbing a flute of champagne off a server’s tray as he passes by. It’s a party full of show-offs, people flaunting their treasures up for bid, some objects, some humans.
“Mr. Stone,” a pretentious feminine voice calls haughtily from behind me. I turn to see Clarissa Windsor standing with a beautiful, albeit terrified, young girl at her side.
“Mrs. Windsor,” I reply in a frigid tone. My eyes scan the space behind her for a sign of Violet, but I don’t find her anywhere. Then my gaze settles on the young blonde beauty in Clarissa’s clutches.
“This is my stepdaughter, Bernadette Windsor. Her hand in marriage will be up for auction tomorrow,” Clarissa preens. “Isn’t she lovely?”
The young woman’s eyes meet mine, and I’m surprised to find something more than innocence in her expression. There’s defiance there too. And a hint of fear.
So, this is the girl Violet came to see me about. The one worth stealing that beautiful heirloom. She is lovely.
“Yes, she is,” I reply, still staring at the girl instead of Clarissa. “Lovely to meet you, Bernadette,” I say, bowing my head.
“It’s Birdie,” she replies with confidence.
Her hair is long, down to her waist, and it’s as gold as the sun. Her dress is a soft blue, hugging her waist tightly and cinched around her bust to create cleavage in the V-shaped neckline.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Birdie,” I reply with a hint of a smile.
By the way she’s staring at my face, desperate and intense, I’m willing to bet she knows why her stepsister came to visit me last night. This girl is literally relying on me to save her this weekend, and I hardly know her. The only thing I do know about her is that she means a lot to Violet.
“She’s only nineteen years old,” Clarissa adds. “And a virgin, too.”
My brow furrows as I glance harshly at the woman. This poor girl is being paraded around and spoken about like she’s not standing right here. Like an animal headed to slaughter.
Birdie’s eyes are still clinging to my face as I take a quick scan of the room. What I see are a lot of men, mostly old ones. Rich, power-hungry, and ravenous. They will eat this girl alive with no consideration for her or her feelings.
I don’t know this young woman, but I don’t have to. It makes me sick to think of what they’ll do to her. No one deserves a nightmare like that.
“Birdie, would you like to dance?” I ask, putting out my arm.
The corner of her mouth lifts in a tiny smile. “Yes. Thank you,” she murmurs as she sets her hand on my elbow. It’s oddly relieving to get her away from her stepmother.
As we reach the dance floor, I pull Birdie close to my body and hold her hand in mine. When her fingers brush my neck, something hopeful and intimate thrums in my chest.
We move slowly to the rhythm of the music. “I’m not usually one for dancing,” I admit.
Her head slants as she blinks. “No?”
I shake my head. “I never really learned,” I reply with softness.
“Well, you’re doing just fine.” Her voice is sweet, like honey. And holding her in my arms makes me feel more rough and coarse than normal, as if she’s a delicate feather I could crush without meaning to.
“Didn’t you learn to dance as a child? Or growing up?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t grow up like this,” I say, my eyes traveling the room. “Where I lived, we didn’t dance, at least not how you and I are right now.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Sometimes in shelters. Sometimes on couches. Or on the streets for short periods of time if we had to.”
Her brows pinch inward. “That’s awful.” Her hand inches closer to my neck.
“We don’t need to talk about that anymore,” I say. “Tell me about you.”
Just then, I spot Violet’s watchful eyes from across the gala. As Birdie speaks, I give her half my attention as she tells me about how her mother died when she was young and her father remarried. The entire time I just keep glancing back at Violet’s eyes on me.
There’s something about her expression that seems odd. I’d think she’d be happier to see me dancing with the girl she begged me to save. But her jaw is tight, and her eyes are narrowed. And she’s staring at Birdie as if the girl might disappear if Violet takes her eyes off her.
Judging by her reaction, I’m willing to bet there is more going on between these stepsisters than they’d like us to believe. Which certainly complicates things, doesn’t it? Did Violet really come to my home to ask her old flame to save her new one? A bold request if you ask me, but Violet is nothing if not bold.
“You will help us, won’t you?”
I blink, tearing my eyes away from Violet to stare down at Birdie, who seems to have stopped with the small talk and dived straight into the business portion of our interaction.
When I don’t answer her for a moment, she adds, “I know my stepsister spoke to you last night. So you know how much we need you. We’re begging you.”
I swallow, furrowing my brow and straightening my spine. I don’t like to feel cornered into things. Every decision I make is one I make on my own, not coerced or pleaded or bribed.
But suddenly, I feel as if I’m in a chokehold with two pretty pairs of hands wrapped around my neck.