Chapter 4
Her First Taste
It’s your silence that I fear. Those words sent a chill through me that was entirely different from the tremor I felt at his touch, or even the strange shivery-ness caused by the mask. No, this was cold and edged in apprehension.
But if the stranger currently felt any of the fear he’d mentioned, he didn’t show it. His smiled as he turned me and led me back across the room, and even that bleakness I’d seen in his eyes had disappeared, leaving only warmth and charm.
He guided us to an empty spot along the far wall, stopping beneath a pastoral painting of a shepherd protecting his flock from a wolf.
Instantly, a member of the burgundy-clad waitstaff was beside us, a tray of those crystal goblets in hand. I gladly accepted one, as did the man.
The drink was just as crisp and heavenly the second time, the floral sweetness lingering on my tongue even after I swallowed.
“Whatever this is, it’s damn good,” I said. “And definitely dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Because it’s so delicious,” I explained. “And clearly very alcoholic. That makes it very easy to accidentally get drunk.” And Isaac would kill me if I let myself get wasted at this party.
“Ah.” The man looked down at his goblet, swirling the liquid inside. For the first time, I noticed that his drink was faintly pink, not gold like mine. “I believe many people here would consider that an asset of the drink, not a flaw.”
I glanced around, unsurprised to see many of the guests happily drinking away.
“I understand that an event like this might be overwhelming,” he went on, his voice rolling like the waves against the cliff below. “But this night is an invitation to indulge our senses—an opportunity to truly see and feel and taste. A chance to remind ourselves of life’s little pleasures.”
“That’s a lovely way to see it.” And perhaps a risky one, for a girl on her own and out of her depth. “I’ll give you this—whatever’s in this glass is definitely pleasurable.”
“It’s called Nectar,” he replied, then lifted his glass, letting the clear pink liquid catch the light. “This one is Ruby Nectar.”
“Ruby Nectar.” I repeated the name as if the words themselves had flavor.
“Would you like to taste it?”
“Yes,” I confessed.
He took another sip, and then I expected him to pass the goblet to me—or maybe wave down a member of the staff to get me one of my own—but instead, he leaned toward me.
He’s going to kiss me.
My heart leaped into my throat. I wasn‘t usually the sort of girl who kissed strangers, but then again, I wasn’t usually the sort of girl who went to masquerade balls in billionaires’ mansions and danced with men in velvet suits.
Besides, what harm is a kiss?
He didn’t do it, though. He leaned down until he was only a couple of inches away, his mouth just shy of mine, and then he stopped.
He’s making me do it. He was forcing me to make the final decision, to consciously choose to leap into the realm of pleasure.
I hesitated for the space of a breath. Maybe two. And then, without letting myself think, I stood up on my toes and pressed my lips against his.
Pleasure bloomed through me, spreading from the place where our mouths touched and all the way down to my toes.
His lips were so warm, and somehow hard and soft at the same time, and they tasted sweet and floral and also a little tart, like a strawberry plucked a morning too soon.
That shivery-ness was there, too, intensifying as the kiss deepened, as if to tell me that this kiss—like the invitation and the mask and the party as a whole—was significant in some way I had yet to understand.
And I wanted more. I ached to slide my arms around his neck and press my body up against his, slipping my tongue between his lips to see if he tasted just as good on the inside.
But some of my inhibitions were still in place, and I had just enough self-control left to override the more reckless urges of my body.
I pulled back, hoping the mask hid most of the flush on my cheeks. I buried my face in my goblet, taking a long swig of my drink while I recovered.
When I looked up again, he was watching me with open amusement.
“Did you enjoy your taste, then?” he asked.
“It was…delicious,” I managed to choke out. “The Ruby Nectar, I mean. Maybe I’ll get a glass of my own.”
He chuckled, and the sound was just as deep and rumbling as his voice. He lifted his hand toward me, opening his lips as if to say something, but then abruptly he froze, and his head snapped up as if he’d heard something over the music and revelry around us. He twisted, looking over his shoulder.
I leaned to the side and peered around his large frame, trying to figure out what had captured his attention so suddenly. But while there was a lot going on behind him—the room was full and the guests were lively—I saw nothing especially unusual or startling.
“I’m afraid I must leave you,” he said, turning back to me.
His eyes were unreadable, but his mouth curled into another smile as he reached toward me again.
His gloved fingers brushed against my cheek just below where the mask ended, and his thumb swept gently across my lips.
“But this won’t be the last time we see each other tonight, Ms. Parsons. ”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and stepped into the crowd before I’d even finished processing the heat of his touch against my skin.
I leaned back against the wall, breathless. I wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened, but my heart was galloping in my chest, threatening to run away.
Looks like I’ll have a good story for Esmer and Isaac, I thought, my gaze scanning the crowd for the retreating back of the lion-masked stranger. He was tall and distinctive enough that I thought I’d be able to find him, but he’d somehow disappeared in the chaos of the party.
My half-full goblet was still in my hand, and I took another swig as I reached down and unclasped my purse with my free hand, grasping for my phone. I was eager to message my friends and get their perspective on this situation.
“Well, that was interesting,” trilled a voice on my left.
I lowered my goblet and looked over to see a woman in a crimson ball gown and a white-and-crimson mask sweeping nearer, a glass of Ruby Nectar in one hand and a scarlet feathered fan in the other.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said to me.
I frowned. “Like what?” Maybe she could explain what was going on here, as my encounter with the lion-masked stranger had left me with nearly as many questions as it did answers.
The woman stepped closer, leaning in for privacy. From this distance, I could see that her golden hair was studded with rubies.
“Usually the Crestwoods don't make an appearance until much later in the night,” she said.
Something fluttered in my stomach, and though I was starting to understand where she was going with this, I wanted to be sure. “What do you mean?”
She gave a tinkling laugh and batted at my arm with her feathered fan. “Don’t you know who you were just kissing?”
I shook my head, the twisting in my stomach intensifying as my cheeks went hot.
“No,” I confessed. “He wouldn’t tell me his name. He said that was the point of all this.” I gestured at my mask. I didn’t mention that even without the masks, I wouldn’t have recognized a soul in this room.
The woman gave another laugh. “That was Octavian Crestwood, my dear.”
Even though I’d guessed she was leading this way, my body went cold with shock, then hot again.
“He never said… He should have told me.” Or I should have guessed.
Not just because of his confidence or his charm—both of which I imagined young billionaires had in spades—but because of how much he seemed to belong here, at this strangest of parties, with his embroidered suit and his enthusiasm for mystery and pleasure.
Even this woman in her elaborate gown looked like she was simply playing dress-up.
“Octavian always wears a lion mask,” the woman told me. “George always wears a wolf. And Alastor wears a dragon.” Her large gray eyes blinked at me from behind her mask. “Don’t you know this already? I thought everyone knew this.”
“This is my first time here,” I admitted, then drained the rest of my goblet. I kissed Octavian-freaking-Crestwood.
“Hm.” The woman looked me up and down, taking in my simple silver evening dress. “I can see that.” She had the sort of no-nonsense bearing that made me suspect that when she wasn’t attending masquerades, she dominated a boardroom somewhere.
Why the hell would one of the Crestwood brothers have gone out of his way to dance with me? And kiss me? I wasn’t delusional—half the women in this room were prettier than me, and I couldn’t believe I’d roped him in with my wit, considering how I’d babbled on about suits and weed and video games.
“Who are you, anyway?” the woman asked, curiosity burning in her big eyes.
“Marigold Parsons,” I answered automatically. “I don’t know why I was invited here. I’ve never met any of the Crestwoods—before tonight, I mean. But I’m not sure I belong here, with…” I swept my arm to indicate the people around us in their elaborate dresses and tuxes.
“Well, obviously Octavian wants you here.” The woman fluttered her fan again. “The question is, why?”
I had no freaking idea, and that was exactly the problem.
“There must be something special about you,” the woman went on, looking me up and down again as if she didn’t quite believe it. “What is it you do, exactly? You’re not related to the Trevor Parsons who owns ZanderTek Industries, are you? I wasn’t aware Trevor had any female relatives.”
I wasn’t sure I liked being an object of speculation, and it was clear this woman didn’t have any more answers for me.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I told her, “I think I’m going to go check out the buffet.
” And find a private place to contact Isaac and Esmer.
Esmer especially was going to freak out when she found out I’d kissed Octavian Crestwood—and then she’d probably give me a bunch of tips on how to take things to the next level.
But it was Isaac’s perspective I was interested in at the moment.
I wasn’t the least bit concerned that Octavian was some sort of murderer, but something here still didn’t quite add up.
The crimson-gowned woman protested as I backed away, but at least she didn’t try to follow me. I moved along the edge of the room, looking for a quiet alcove or little nook where I could pull out my phone and gather my thoughts. Surely there had to be a bathroom somewhere, too. I wasn’t picky.
It wasn’t long before I stumbled across an angular recess in the wall where an ancient-looking urn was on display. There was just enough room for me to slip beside it, offering me a little privacy.
I set my empty goblet on the pedestal beside the urn and reached into my purse, fumbling around for my cell. My fingers brushed against the little canister of pepper spray and the thin billfold that held my ID and credit card, but not my phone.
What the… I lifted up my purse, fishing around inside it, but there was nowhere for my phone to be hiding. It was simply…gone.
Someone had taken my phone.
Don’t panic, I told myself, even as I could feel the panic rising up my throat in a lump. Maybe the phone had simply fallen out of my bag. Maybe if I retraced my steps, I’d find it lying on the floor somewhere, hopefully out of the way of any fancy heeled shoes.
I snapped my purse shut and practically leaped from the alcove—
And slammed right into the warm, hard chest of someone I hadn’t even noticed.
A pair of strong arms came up around me, steadying me before I could topple over. I found myself braced against an athletic chest—not nearly as broad as Octavian’s, but still obviously muscled—and my hands were pressed into a velvet suit of deep forest green.
“Did you lose something?”
I tilted my head back, and my heart leaped. I was looking up into a pair of eyes just a shade lighter than the suit, shining from behind a silver mask made to look like a wolf’s head.
George Crestwood.