Chapter 47
Most years, the Windsor’s Astera City Foundation Against Crime Gala is a stuffy, boring event during which I am seated at a table with my mom and sister and a gaggle of old dudes in toupees who call me kiddo.
If I were a statistics whiz, I’d say something like twenty percent of the ACFAC galas I’ve attended resulted in me rejecting the sexual advances of men who could be my grandfather’s grandfather, thirty percent left me with brutalized toes from non-sensible heels (my mortal enemies), and fifty percent have ended in an argument with my mother over something I did that was egregiously humiliating, like call a CEO by the wrong name or fall asleep in my chicken.
(In my defense, I’d gotten no sleep that week while hunting a wily young vampire with a penchant for both coke and Nespresso.)
And still, I’d pick any of those cheerless evenings over what I know is in store for us tonight.
The only silver lining—no dagger pun intended—is that by some department store miracle, perhaps the many knowing glances I exchanged with our bereft sales associate, the dress my mom chose for me is disturbingly stunning.
It’s a floor-length red ball gown. The antithesis of what I look good in.
But I can’t deny there’s something supremely elegant about the piece.
Rich scarlet silk; a simple, clean bow at the small of my back; and a timeless silhouette.
The skintight sweetheart bodice has no sleeves and turns my unimpressive chest bombshell-curvy.
The A-line skirt floats down to the ground at my heels.
Inspired by the breathtaking grace of the dress, I’ve pulled my river of black hair into a sleek low pony and appeased my mother by wearing her dangling diamond earrings.
When Penny and I walk inside, the Windsor lobby has been transformed into a veritable ballroom, complete with a band, multiple bars, and floral arrangements as far as the eye can see.
But even my god-given dress cannot stave off the tremors of anxiety I feel when I spy Caspar, Stan, and James talking in a corner, sipping flutes of sparkling wine.
Memories of glowing snake eyes and jaw-shattering pain detonate in my mind.
Caspar’s gaze cuts away from his conversation just long enough to drill into me and send shards of ice through my blood. He lifts his drink to me, a promise of death in his eyes. You won’t make it to dawn, one way or another.
“Come on,” Penny says quietly, taking my hand in hers. “Let’s find everyone else.”
But my bloodlust is spiking, and I’m having trouble pulling my eyes from the High Thane. I’m still an aeon, after all. And there are so many innocents here. My daggers could be in my palms so easily…
“Viv,” Penny grunts. “You’re hurting me.”
I peer down and realize I’ve squeezed all the circulation out of her fingers. “Sorry.”
I force my breaths to come slower. It’s going to be a long night.
Over by the candlelit bar stationed in front of African fossils, Penny and I order drinks and sip just enough to take the edge off. There’s too much on the line to get tipsy.
“Another please,” a rumbly, baritone voice behind me tells the bartender. Tobacco and clove cloud my senses as the bartender hands Deacon a tumbler of whiskey. I hear him down the thing in one deep swallow.
“Oh my god,” Penny says. “You’re wearing a tux!”
When I whirl around, my mind blanks. Deacon is wearing a tux like the people in this room can afford a taxi. Deacon is wearing a tux like being impaled hurts. Deacon is wearing a tux like one sweats running a marathon. My brain has hit a traffic jam. It’s the understatement of the millennium.
Deacon looks violently gorgeous. All clean, silken lines of midnight black and glossy silver cuff links.
The way he’s combed his rugged hair back like a prince, but his demonic tattoos still peek out from beneath his pressed white collar.
He’s like alternative grunge James Bond.
Kurt Cobain if he were a Scandinavian diplomat.
And after my dream last night, I wonder if I’m going to overheat and combust like a fried motorcycle engine.
I’d be mortified by my inability to speak—to stop gawking at the way the rich black of his suit brings out the flecks of cobalt blue that ring his pupils—if he wasn’t staring at me with the same slack-jawed awe.
“I’m going to find Soph,” Penny says with a smirk.
It’s the jolt of reality I need. Our sexual tension has forced Penny to flee. “Hey,” is what I finally come up with when we’re alone. I’m a visionary.
But his eyes are still downright destructive as they slide across my cleavage—cleavage!—and up the curve of my neck. I feel the weight of his gaze as if it were his tongue, and I wish I had something to bite down on. A leather strap, perhaps.
“Hey, yourself.” He clears his throat. “That is some dress.”
Has his voice always been so deep? So husky? Is someone pumping ecstasy into this gala? “Thank you. Your tux is…You look great.”
His fingers barely hold the rim of the empty whiskey tumbler at his side, as if he could let it slip to the floor and shatter without another thought if given the chance to put his hands on me.
He looks around the swarming gala like he too needs a lifeline, only to shake his head as if something has just become very, frustratingly hard for him.
“What?”
When his gaze meets mine, it’s edged in something predatory. “I don’t like that every man in here wants the woman I’m with.”
Too close. If we’re avoiding some plunge we can’t—or won’t—take, he’s just skimmed the water’s edge.
“Speaking of…” Deacon grits out.
“You look incredible,” James drawls, pulling me into a warm hug. I mumble my thanks as he holds me like the hug should mean something.
I open my mouth to make an excuse to bail when I spy two men I don’t recognize. I know every single face that is supposed to be here, and those two men are not guests. And they’re scanning the bustling lobby in the way only hunters can.
When Landon walks in behind them, I spin to the right so James can block me from his sight.
The realignment sends me cozily into Deacon’s side.
He looks down at me like the contact—while not unwelcome—is odd.
I nod ever so slightly in the direction of the Citadel hunters, and Deacon’s jaw goes tight.
But James is undeterred as he offers Deacon his hand. “Good to see you again.” Always the schmoozer.
Deacon shakes his palm, eyes still behind him, pinned on Landon and his men. “Joel, was it?”
“James,” he corrects, grin a little clenched.
“Damn,” Deacon says, finally meeting his eyes. “I really thought if it wasn’t Joel it would be John.”
When James takes an irritable sip of his drink, Deacon’s eyes flash to me conspiratorially. A thousand years alive and his favorite pastime is infuriating people. How is this the man I can’t stop drooling over?
“Viv.” A hand warms the small of my back, and I jump like a scream queen.
Reid’s standing there behind me. Also in a tux.
“What are you doing here?” I bite out, moving away from him.
James raises a brow. “Isn’t he one of your colleagues?”
Shit. “Of course. I just meant…What are you doing here. And not in the north wing. Making sure the place cards are all set for dinner.”
Reid doesn’t miss a beat. “All done. Wanted to see you before I got back to work.” His phrasing isn’t lost on me. Back to work. An admission of the job he plans to do tonight. The one we’ll both be doing. “Can I talk to you?”
“No.”
“They work you too hard here,” James tuts, oblivious to the tension among us. “You can’t even enjoy all your hard work. It’s barely humane.”
Spoken like someone who’s never had to work a real job a day in his life.
“He’s a glutton for punishment,” Deacon says, offering Reid a knowing look. “Isn’t that right, brother?”
“Brother?” James’s eyes widen. “Viv…”
“No, it’s not what it sounds like—”
“It’s one thing to leave me for some coworker, but then you leave him to sleep with his brother?” James chuckles to mask the hurt. “Are you on a soap opera or something?”
My mouth gapes open before I can school my face.
“That’s enough,” Reid growls.
Deacon sets down his tumbler on the bar and begins to roll up one of his sleeves.
“Oh, come on.” James frowns. “It was a joke!”
I reach for his arm. “Deacon—”
“No, honestly,” he says, polite like he’s refusing my credit card at dinner. “It’s been too long since I’ve punched a misogynist. I’m overdue.”
That deadly seriousness in Deacon’s eyes scares whatever bravado James had right out of him, and he gives me an apologetic nod before he scuttles off into the fray.
“Mature as always,” Reid snarls at Deacon.
Deacon shrugs, motioning for another drink from the bartender. “What can I say? I hate that guy.”
“Yeah,” Reid concedes, blowing out a breath. “Me too.”
“I’m glad we’ve all found something to agree upon.” I glare at Reid. “Now get out of my sight before I drive my blade into your heart.”
“There’s my girl,” Deacon snorts into his glass.
The look Reid gives him is so lethal, so furious, I’m shocked when the flesh doesn’t melt clean off Deacon’s face. “I just want to talk,” Reid says to me.
I think of how, this morning, I crushed his gifted silver camera until it was as unrecognizable as space junk and try to hold on to that peaceful feeling. “I said no.”
“Please.”
“No.” So much for peaceful feelings. A few patrons glance in our direction with concern.
His face twists with hurt and anger. He doesn’t look at Deacon, who is glaring gloriously at him. “If I don’t see you again,” he says quietly, “just know that I never stopped caring for you, and that I am sorry.”
I could slice him in half for making it sound like he’s doing something noble and I’m being petulant.
“Okay, then,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “Bye.”
His eyes sweep over me, head to toe, before he says softly, “I did always love you in red.”