Page 6 of Twisted Knight

“I know, but ooohhhh…” she purrs. “Who do we have here? Hello, gorgeous.”

“Who?” I ask casually because anyone who is new to our society circle garners that response from her. But when I follow her gaze, the martini I’m lifting falters midway to my lips. “Oh.”

“Oh is most definitely right,” she murmurs as I take in the man who has captured not only my but the entire room’s attention.

He’s tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and an immaculately tailored suit that stands out in a room full of them. Even at this distance, it’s clear he’s handsome in every sense of the word, but it’s the air about him—brooding, aloof, untouchable, regal—that has me instinctively taking a step closer.

He’s standing alone, swirling a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his attention on a scrap metal sculpture that’s on the auction block.

He looks like something I’m not supposed to have, and that makes me attracted to him all the more.

A quiet murmur has spread throughout the room as everybody else begins to take notice of the outsider. They feign interest in the auction item he’s studying, needing to stare a little longer at the man whose presence is overshadowing it.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Damn. Oh … it’s him.”

“Him?” I ask, clueless but unable to take my eyes off him.

Her smile is a slow crawl across her lips. “The man everyone is talking about. Men and women alike. Holden Knight. Now I can see why.”

As if on cue, the object of our attention looks up and meets my eyes from across the room. I smile reflexively but receive nothing more than a stoic, assessing stare in return.

Well, well, well. I don’t think my mom has to worry about me being the center of gossip tonight. It looks like someone else just took that crown for the time being.

TWO

Holden

They all want to know who I am.

This outsider in their otherwise insular world.

It’s in their furtive glances. Their whispered murmurs. The subtle lift of their chins in my direction. They’re supposed to be paying attention to the auction. To the money being raised for the charity they claim to support.

But mystery sells better.

Intrigue has a stronger pull.

Who is he?

Where is he from?

How’d he get an invitation?

Who does he know to get in here?

No doubt their list of questions and speculations is long, but they’ll know soon enough.

I glance around again as bidding begins on the final item of the evening, and my gaze lingers on the woman who caught my eye earlier. She’s stunning and I’m more than intrigued. Or maybe my intrigue has to do with the fact that I’m not exactly sure how she fits into all of this just yet.

Soon enough, though, I will.

As the auctioneer begins, I focus my attention where everyone’s should be—on the painting displayed at the front of the room.

Much like the people in this room, it’s an eyesore of contrasting colors, bright and clashing, flashy but meaningless. The lights shining on it, highlighting it, do it no favors, and it evokes absolutely nothing from me other than revulsion.

The oohs and ahs cutting through the room around me as paddles are raised to bid on it say otherwise.