Page 169 of Twisting Beauty

“I thought you’d want to know.”

He set his glass aside on the side table, the crystal making a small clean sound on the wood, the green liquid sparkling against the low firelight.

Then he steepled his fingers and looked at me over them.

“Tell me everything.”

I told him that he’d taken over as a substitute professor for Powell. The way he’d arrogantly used his own name like he didn’t care if I knew who he was. The way he’d immediately directed his hatred toward me.

I didn’t tell him how I’d seen him hanging around her at Ravenwood or at the saloon as a buyer. I could not have Alistair link them.

When I was done talking, he was quiet for a long moment.

Then he picked up his glass and took another slow sip. “Bron Deargán has always wanted to destroy our family. He tried to kill your mother. You, in her belly. He killed your grandfather.” He made a cross symbol with his hands. “God rest his soul.”

The fire crackled and spat. The room held still.

“He has come back to finish what he started. You understand that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He will come for what is mine. He will come for you. He’ll even come for your sweet little sister. If we don’t stop him.”

I tried not to flinch at the mention of her. “What do you want me to do?”

He smiled. “I want a name. Who he is working with. I want a location. Where he sleeps. Where he goes when he is not at the school. I want a schedule. When he is alone.”

He paused.

“And I want a weakness. Find me the thing he loves. We will use it against him.”

I made my face still.

He cared about her. But Deargán could never be linked to her.

I could give him something.

“I…” I said, picking out my words carefully, “I might have something.”

Alistair nodded. “Go on.”

No turning back now.

“The carriage house on the Magdalene grounds. That’s where he’s staying.”

Alistair stood. He walked to the cabinet behind his desk and poured himself another inch of absinthe. He did not offer me one. He stood in front of the fire and he looked at me for a long moment, his elbow on the mantle, glass in his hand.

“Perhaps I have been wrong about you, son.”

I went very still.

“Perhaps you do have what it takes to be my heir.”

His voice had softened. The contempt he usually carried in his throat when he spoke to me was just gone. In its place was something I had been hungry for since I was old enough to know what hunger was. Pride. Acceptance. Respect.

But underneath, a cold wrongness slithered down the back of my throat. I feared I had just made an irreversible mistake. That I had just pointed a dangerous and unpredictable weapon and that she might get caught in the crossfire.

Alistair waved at the door, dismissing me.