32. Liath #2
His filthy arrogance made me want to slap him. But a treacherous ache pulled tighter low in my belly, and hating him did nothing to stop it. “Fuck, I hate you,” I breathed.
He leaned in closer, his mouth a breath from mine. “I hate you, too.”
For one stupid, treacherous second, I leaned in too.
“So good to see my children getting along so well.”
A deep voice cut through the tension from below.
I pushed Lorcan off me and turned, breath snagging in my throat.
Lorcan stepped back, his hands jerking off me.
Alistair was standing at the base of the staircase, glancing between us with interest.
The horror of how much of that he might have heard or what he might have seen stabbed my chest like an ice pick.
For a moment there was a long silence, like a held breath.
“Well…” His voice grew rough and disapproving, cutting through the foyer like a whip crack. “Don’t just stand there. Greet your father properly.”
Lorcan and I flinched at the same moment, an involuntary jolt as if struck by the same invisible hand.
Lorcan cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”
He descended the stairs first, me following him, and extended his hand to his father in a stiff handshake.
Alistair took it but didn’t let go. Instead, he squeezed. A flash of wicked pleasure crossed Alistair’s face as Lorcan’s jaw tightened, barely suppressing a wince.
Lorcan didn’t pull back. He just took it, standing there like a statue while his father hurt him for sport.
The burn in my hand bloomed sharp and sudden, phantom pain needling through my palm as if Alistair had crushed my bones instead, my mirror-touch sparking alongside the empathy I couldn’t seem to kill.
I let out a small whimper and clutched my hand.
Lorcan glanced over to me, then to my hand, and his brows pressed together.
I should have let it go. Should have stayed still. Stayed silent.
But I moved on instinct, stepping between them and placing my uninjured hand against Alistair’s wrist. “Enough.”
Silence fell so cleanly it seemed to ring.
For a long moment, Alistair just looked at me.
Then he smiled. It spread slowly, as if I had just handed him a piece of information he had not known he wanted.
He released Lorcan.
Then he turned his full attention to me.
“You’ve become protective of him,” he murmured, thumb settling beneath my chin with that ghastly gentleness that felt like a violation. His signet ring flashed near my face, the engraved S C catching the foyer light like a branded promise.
I froze.
“That’s dangerous.” He leaned closer. “You’re forgetting who you belong to, pet.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the tenderness of the gesture making bile rise hot in the back of my throat.
Footsteps sounded from the open front door and Mervyn appeared carrying garment bags and a lacquered case, his expression carefully blank. “Everything is prepared for this evening, sir,” he said, eyes flicking only once toward me before dropping again. “The guests will arrive at eight.”
Guests? I glanced at Lorcan to catch his reaction. Our eyes met. He looked just as surprised.
“What’s happening this evening?” I asked, feigning casual curiosity.
“Drinks for some… new friends. And you,” Alistair pat my nose with his finger, “are going to take care of my guests, my unlucky girl.”
Alistair had turned the Lasair drawing room into a den.
Candelabras were lit at intervals so the light fell warm and flattering, the air thick with expensive cologne and cigar smoke, a clash of symbols and notes in my mind, hired women in tight black dresses weaving through the red leather chairs, some with silver trays, all of them with a fixed smile.
Alistair’s hand found the small of my back as he steered me from one cluster of masked guests to another.
His fingers closed around the crook of my elbow when he wanted me to stop moving.
When he paused to speak to someone, his palm rested at the nape of my neck or at the small of my back, light enough to read as affectionate, heavy enough to read as claimed.
I played my part, played Rua. I kept my lashes lowered and a fixed smile, soft eyes with nothing behind them.
One of the masked guests had been watching me since my second circuit of the room. He stood in a corner leaning against a tall wooden bar table with a whiskey glass he wasn’t drinking from, his ringed finger running slow circles on the crystal rim.
My stomach flipped as Alistair steered me straight toward him.
“So glad you could make it,” Alistair said smoothly when we reached him. “I hope the evening is proving worth your time.”
The man gave a lazy nod, his gaze already on me. “Very much so,” he said. “And is she…?”
Alistair smiled. “This is my daughter.”
The answer did not change the man’s expression. His eyes moved over me once, then settled back on my face with the same barely restrained lust.
The smile stayed fixed on my mouth by force as I lifted my tray. “Would you care for another drink, sir?”
“No.” He tilted his head slightly, studying me with interest. “But perhaps you have something else to offer for I am… quite hungry.”
My smile faltered for a mere second.
Alistair said nothing.
I faked seeing someone wave at me. “Excuse me, I need to keep serving.”
I hurried away through the crush of bodies and candlelight, tray balanced too carefully in my hands. I glanced back and found him still watching me, his whiskey still untouched, his gaze fixed on me with the same oily patience.
Halfway to the next cluster of guests, the smell of clove and pepper caught in my nose. The familiar cello vibrated in my head, deep and bassy, slow across thick strings.
My fingers faltered on my tray. One crystal glass skidded against the silver with a sharp, betraying chime and tilted toward the edge.
A gloved hand closed around the stem, rebalanced it before releasing.
I turned to thank him.
His half-mask was silver and ornate, the nose extended into the long, curved beak of a plague doctor over an unmistakable strong jaw, his dark eyes peering out from behind the metalwork. A long dark cloak around his broad shoulders, clasped together with a silver dragon’s head.
Deargán.
What the fuck was he doing here?
I buried the recognition before it reached my face.
I kept my smile in place, already composing the soft, slightly breathless thanks that Rua would have offered a stranger.
All the while trying to figure out how I could get him alone so I could grill him on why he was threatening everything by showing up here.
“There you are, pet.” Alistair materialized at my shoulder.
I stiffened, my horror morphing as his hand settled at the back of my neck. His thumb moved once, slowly tracing a small arc against my skin.
But I kept my tray level. I kept my face smooth.
I glanced between Deargán and Alistair, praying that Deargán’s disguise held. That Alistair didn’t recognize the man trying to destroy him, standing right in front of him.
Deargán’s body went rigid as his gaze darted to where Alistair held me by my neck. A single muscle jumped in his jaw once and then locked down into nothing. But I had seen it.
Alistair studied Deargán, his gaze moving across the plague doctor mask. “I don’t remember greeting you earlier, Mr.…”
Shite. I kept my eyes on the middle distance, my smile soft and vacant, and I prayed to any god still paying attention that the man behind that mask had enough composure left in him not to crack.
He was standing in the middle of the lion’s den and the lion had just fixed on him.