“You must be psychic. That happened exactly how you planned,” he murmurs over the loud music of saxophones and piano.
“And we’re just getting started.” I clink my glass to his, and we down our first shot. My throat, chest, and stomach buzz with a fierce chemical burn, but I don’t let my face show it. It’s water.Water. Water. Water.
“Did you wear that dress for me?” Ernest, the Chandelier City rake whispers in my ear.
He hits on me occasionally, but it isn’t usually in front of large crowds like this. Ernest has old money, regularly throws ridiculously expensive parties, has had sex with basically every woman with a heartbeat. Even women older than his mother.
“I wore it for me,” I say with a soft smile.
“Then maybe you could take it off forme. Later?”
“Perhaps. But you won’t be able to enjoy the view without your eyes,” Krimson growls, taking a step toward me.
Ernest is a good-looking man. Muscular and in shape, but he’s no match for my brother. And he’s certainly no match for the reputation attached to our last name.
Ernest backs away with an apologetic look. I shrug a shoulder and mouth the wordsorry.
“This plan is starting to turn my stomach,” my brother complains. And although he likes to pretend otherwise, Krimson has a temper when it comes to defending me or my mother. I know this is actually boiling his blood.
“Don’t worry. Your part is almost over. Then you get to go flirt with the precious Genevieve watching you in the corner.”
Krimson straightens, peeking over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of her.
“Good.”
“Are they watching me?” I ask.
My twin’s brown and green eyes slide to the left side of the tavern. He nods twice.
“Beautiful.” I grin.
We take another shot. Krimson orders us two more. A shadow shifts behind me, and a finger taps me on the shoulder.
“No,” Krimson barks at the faceless figure.
I grin wider. And that was the last one I needed. Here’s the thing. Men want what other men want. If I walk into this tavern turning heads, and shooting down every suitor who comes tapping me on the shoulder…I’m twice as desirable. Even to the inner circle of my enemy.
Men are competitive. They want the chance to prove that they can claim what other men have tried and failed at. I’m playing them right into my hand.
Aunt Ruth taught me this.
“You’re scary accurate. Quite the mastermind manipulator,” Krimson mutters, giving me a quick kiss on my cheek before he makes his way to sweet Genevieve in the corner.
Game time.
I hold two shots in my hands, feeling the downpour of a great buzz filling my mind with temporary bliss. Careful not to appear too intoxicated, I start walking toward enemy lines. Niklaus’s usual table. To his gang of friends that have helped make my life hell.
Although there is one man left who I’m waiting on to approach me. Ralik Marvelan. He’s the only Demechnef swordsman who gives Niklaus a run for his money. Theyhateeach other. Maybe more than he hates me. But the thing about Ralik is—he’d never approach me with Krimson at my side. He may be good with a sword, but everyone knows that no one can take Krimson on in hand-to-hand combat. He really is our father’s son.
So, where does that leave me? Waiting on Ralik to approach now that I’m without my twin bodyguard. I’m banking on this exact move to put the pieces exactly where I want them.
And like a well-dressed puppeteer, a single step away from crossing Niklaus’s table, Ralik stops me, holding a glass of champagne and that dangerously beautiful smile of his.
Please, please, please ask me what I want you to ask.
“Did you come here all by yourself, Valdawell?” Ralik purrs, those stunning white teeth contrasting with his dark skin.
There it is.
