“Hi.” Cillian sounds out of breath, like he’s run here. Considering the bead of sweat running down his throat, there’s a strong possibility that he did. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I scoot back. “It’s an open bar.” I reach for my paloma and drain it.
His lips press together. Could I have made my retort a tad less snippy? Possibly. Do I care if he finds me hostile? Absolutely not.
“Want another one?” he asks.
“I never have more than one drink around strangers.”
One of his lids twitches. “Ask me a question. Anything.”
“Why?”
“Because once you know something about me, then I won’t be a stranger anymore.”
I tilt my head to the side, the ends of my short hair brushing against my shoulder. “Your logic is illogical. Knowing one fact about a person won’t make them any less of a stranger. But all that aside, look around. Do you think I know all these people?”
He doesn’t look around. Fiona claimed the guy was shy, but the way he watches me feels almost predatory.
My skin prickles from his brazen scrutiny. “As I mentioned, it’s an open bar. Go wild.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Why not?”
Cillian shrugs. “Because alcohol’s how my father lost everything. He drank away our savings, and?—”
“Save your sob story for someone who’ll care.” After a beat, I add, “That someone isn’t me.”
His mouth tightens.
“Look, I know Fi thought I needed a date, but I don’t. So, go enjoy the party.”
Cillian’s hand rises to his necklace and twirls the bauble dangling from the gold chain that looks a lot like a woman’s ring.
He seems about to say something when Lisa’s shop manager closes in on him, sidling so near that her skintight mermaiddress brushes against his side. I wouldn’t be surprised if turquoise sequins transferred to the black wool.
What was her name again? Oh, yeah. “Jeneva with a J and not a G.” It’s how she introduced herself the day we met. As though I’d care about her name’s weird spelling.
The only thing I’d cared about was the tattoo on her nape. The one that resembles Calanthe’s but is as fake as Fiona’s veneers.
Ever since Calanthe debuted her extra-wordy runes and snagged Tarian Hadez—Boston’s most eligible bachelor—thousands of women have inked their backs with words resembling ours but always misspelled or arranged nonsensically.
“What. A. Turn out,” Jeneva says. “I just ran into the head of Fablez Skincare, who told me she was going to send me a package with all their newest products.”
Humans have such poor self-preservation instincts, always willing to rub, inject, and ingest anything that promises youth and better health. Yes, I know—I’m here to celebrate a breakthrough drug, but I know how it’s made. The Fablez, on the other hand, mix a host of unmonitored ingredients.
Jeneva leans forward to order herself a champagne flute when her eyes clock me. They widen—in fear. I recognize the look because I used to wear it; now I inspire it.
“Oh, hi, sorry. I didn’t see you. I should’ve saidhiearlier,” she bumbles. “It’s such a great party, isn’t it?”
“If huge gatherings are your thing…” I glance around the loud, glitzy venue, stopping cold at the entrance.
My lungs forget their purpose. My heart, too, holds still.
Malachi has arrived.
Chapter 2
