“It’s Shea,” she says. “Parker.”
The man’s smile is startling—a razor-sharp smirk that sets off warning bells in her head.
“You’re absolutely right. Ididask for you.”
It takes her brain a moment to catch up. Her mind does a frantic cartwheel, doing whatever it can to integrate all that she knows about the infamous Paris Keeling with this man in front of her. All this time, she’d been picturing him as a boy Lys’s age, or close to it. Eighteen years old and ruthless. The kind of monster who would use the life of a girl as collateral in a game.
This man is none of those things. Not at first glance. He’s unsettlingly lovely, his smile alluring. His eyes are a cool, clear blue. They glimmer, sapphiric, as he offers his arm.
“Would you like to accompany me inside?” asks Paris Keeling.
She’s come all this way. The plan hasn’t changed, just because he’s different from how she expected him to be. She slips her fingers in the crook of his elbow and lets him lead her up the steps and into the building.
Mercy Ridge is all cut timber and stacked stone—a building meant for weathering trouble. Immediately, Shea can see that the Keeling mansion is the lodge’s opposite in every way. The moment they cross the threshold, she’s greeted by the sight of an open ballroom, sprawling in scope and equally resplendent.
It takes her a minute to absorb every vast, glittering thing. A dazzling old-world chandelier hangs overhead, throwing light into the ornate stained glass, its colors jewel dark. A sprawling main staircase descends into the middle of the room, carpeted steps flush with bodies. Everything glimmers and churns and throbs. Beneath it all, raising the hairs along the back of her neck, is the coppery smack of blood.
“Do you like it?” asks Paris, directly into her ear. She leans back to read his lips, struggling to pick out the lines of him in the swirling lights. “The party—are you impressed?”
“I guess so,” she says, and shrugs. “I’ve seen better.”
His smile stretches wider. He’s just like Lys, delighted by the push—captivated by the possibility of a chase. “Don’t tell me you prefer it up north in Oliver’s chilly little lodge.”
“I do. It’s quieter there.”
He regards her over the thin bridge of his nose. “I can bring you someplace quiet, if that’s what you’d prefer. We could discuss your mother. Would you like that?”
The warning bells scream louder. “I wouldn’t like that, no.”
“Oh, you’re afraid.” Paris’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You don’t want to be alone with me. Let me reassure you—your instinct is misguided. Do you think I need to usher you away somewhere quiet to hurt you? That I couldn’t do whatever I wanted to you right here, right now?” He steps behind her, his chest at her back, his mouth at her ear. She strains to hear him above the noise. “Look around. I could drain you of every drop right now, and no one in this room would bat an eye. And it isn’t because they’re occupied. It’s not because they’re distracted. It’s because I own everyone here, body and soul.”
“You won’t do it.” Her bravery is a facade. She’s certain he can hear her heart hammering.
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
“And why is that?”
She turns to face him head-on in the swirling miasma. “Because the only audience you care about isn’t even here.”
His eyes glitter. He looks like a cat with a bird trapped between its paws. “Is that so?”
“There’s no point in killing me if Lys isn’t around to see you do it.”
“Oh, you’re clever. I can see why he’s drawn to you.”
“I hold my own.”
“I’ll bet you do.” He’s watching her a touch too closely, and it makes her skin crawl. “You remind me very much of a girl I fancied myself in love with, once upon a time. She was human, just like you. Did Oliver ever tell you that sordid little tale?”
“He doesn’t talk about you at all, actually,” says Shea.
She’d meant for it to hurt. Instead, Paris’s smile sharpens. “The two of you must not talk about very much, since you seem to have no idea what it is we’re doing here this evening. Tell me honestly—do you not have a single clue what all this pageantry is for?”
“It’s the hunter’s revel,” guesses Shea, taking a desperate stab at an answer. “You’re celebrating the full moon.”
Paris lets out a laugh, loud and full-bodied. “Thefull moon? How pagan. Is that really what you think?”
