We stare at each other across the firelit table, the truth unspoken between us: we aren’t just chasing a killer of women. We’re chasing one of us.
A Shadow. A Baron. A member of the House of Night.
The logs snap in the hearth. Outside, winter wind claws at the windows like something trying to get in.
“We have to let the King know,” I say.
“Now?” DK glances at the clock. “They’re at the Mercer party. Black tie. Champagne. Security crawling everywhere.”
I close the book with a soft, final thud. “Do you want to wait?”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“No.”
I’m already standing, grabbing my coat from the chair and pulling out my keys. DK moves with me, shrugging into his jacket.
At the threshold, I pause.
I look back at the table, at the pinned beetle in its glass coffin, at the open maps of Forsyth’s underbelly, and at the ritual diagram bleeding through my mind like an afterimage.
The city suddenly feels smaller.
Tighter.
Like fingers wrapped around my throat, cutting off air.
“Come on,” DK says, already opening the door, cold air slicing in. “Let’s go crash a party.”
41
Timothy
The ballroom isalive around us–crystal flutes catching light, a string quartet in the corner, their music weaving through the murmur of voices, and towering Christmas trees casting soft shadows across the marble. Arianette moves through it like she was born for this kind of night. The truth is that her uncle trained her for it. The way she carries herself in the dark red velvet gown is reminiscent of royalty, although the way it hugs her body is altogether different. Each step is like a quiet promise. The off-the-shoulder neckline exposes the elegant line of her collarbones, ones I long to suck and lick. It’s why I took her down that back hall, and made my own promise I plan to keep.
Even if everyone in the room didn’t already know she belonged to me, the peacock tiara gleaming in her dark hair would be a reminder. The multicolored stones catch every flicker of candlelight andchandelier glow. She’s radiant. Composed. Grinning at something Eileen Stratford, the head of the community theater, just said.
She’s having an amazing time. No trembling hands, no darting glances toward the exits, no white-knuckled grip on her champagne flute. She’s behaving herself perfectly. Gracefully. Like the Baroness she’s become.
I watch her from across the room, gloved hand resting on the stem of my own untouched glass, and feel something loosen in my chest. I can do this. I can be the husband she needs. Not just in the bedroom, not just in the dark hours when she’s trembling under me and whispering wicked, dirty taunts like a prayer. I can be the man who stands beside her at events like this, who doesn’t flinch when eyes turn her way, and who doesn’t hide her away because he’s afraid she’ll break.
DK’s words from the hotel office still burn behind my eyes. He was right–brutally, infuriatingly right. I was furious when he stormed in, all righteous anger and zero deference, but the truth landed anyway. Arianette has taken everything we’ve thrown at her. Everything. She didn’t crack when we asked her to kneel, when we pushed her limits, when the world tried to tear her open again. Cutting her off from nights like this wouldn’t protect her. It would only make her smaller.
I’ve already seen how that ends.
Killian’s Lady–Story–approaches Arianette with a bright smile, the two of them falling into easy conversation. Arianette’s laugh carries over the music, light and genuine. My mouth curves at the sound despite myself.
Killian leans against a marble column that divides the ballroom from the dining room, arms crossed, watching his woman with the kind of focus most men reserve for survival. I cross the floor casually, stopping beside him.
“Any update?” I ask, voice low.
He doesn’t look away from Story. “We’ve been watching Lex. Nothing but diaper changes and midnight feedings. Kid’s got that thing where he cries a lot…” he frowns, thinking. “What’s it called?”
“Colic?” I ask, memories of those nights rushing back to me.
“That’s it,” he nods. “Keeps the whole house up.”
Sounds right for having an infant. I never really suspected Lagan, but it’s good to look at everyone. “What’s the status with Warren?”
