“I am told I have an admirer inside who wishes to greet me personally.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle, if only…” The first guard leered. “But, one cannot enter without one of these.” He raised his wrist, displaying the apple-shaped blood Forged tattoo. “Unless Mademoiselle has one hidden somewhere secret on her person?”
His eyes roved down the length of her, and Séverin had a great urge to snap the man’s neck.
“You’re welcome to check,” she said silkily.
The guard’s eyes widened. He straightened his lapel, then walked over to her. Laila stretched out her bronze leg for inspection. Séverin counted down from ten.
9…
The man reached for her thigh.
7…
Laila feigned a laugh as his other hand went to her waist.
4…
The second the man touched her, Laila drew out a knife and pressed it against his neck, leaving Séverin standing there uselessly holding a knife in his hand.
“Guard!” shouted the first.
But the man with the bayonet didn’t move.
“Get this bitch off me,” he said.
Séverin raised his knife and walked forward. “I’m afraid he doesn’t work for you. He works for us.”
Laila pressed the knife tighter to his throat.
“If you kill me, you can’t get inside,” said the man, starting to sweat. “You need me.”
“On the contrary,” said Laila. “We only need your hand.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Please—”
Laila looked at Séverin. Séverin raised his knife higher.
“No—” started the guard.
Séverin brought it down, switching his grip at the last second, so the heavy hilt slammed into the back of the man’s skull. He slumped forward, unconscious.
“Repulsive,” hissed Laila, pocketing her knife. When she saw Séverin looking at it, she shrugged. “I wasgoingto tell you I couldrender him immobile on my own. You were the one who chose not to listen.”
Séverin shut his mouth.
With the help of the disguised House Nyx guard, they dragged the guard forward, placing his wrist with the blood Forged tattoo on an access point in the middle of the pressed-palm marble doors. The marble shuddered open at the touch, and Séverin dropped the man to the floor.
Séverin glanced at the guard. “Get the wedding carriage ready.”
The other man nodded and left.
Inside the salon, rich curtains and portraits of a ballerina with red hair adorned the licorice-black walls. Vasiliev sat at a desk, sketching. At the sight of Laila and Séverin, his guards leapt forward.
“Rather dusty inside here, isn’t it?” asked Séverin.
He pushed down on Zofia’s magnetic signet ring, and the guards zoomed backwards into the four corners of the room where, earlier today, a false construction team had erected several powerful magnetic beams, to Zofia’s specific instructions.
