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The corners of his eyes tightened, his glare intensifying. “You know what it means.”
“Are you asking if I slept with him?” I took a step forward, reminding myself to be the calm one in this ridiculous exchange. It was a bit hypocritical, sinceI’dhad the same fear not that long ago... But ever since I took a chef’s knife to my arm in Chicago, I thoughthewas past the whole jealous thing.
Before Leander could answer, Dorian’s boisterous laugh carried across the room again. “Uh, no. Wrong Montclare.” He shoved the stack of stain samples into my hands and turned to Leander with a bright smile. “I’m flattered though, to think I’m appealing to both sexes.”
I avoided Leander’s less-than-relieved stare, shuffling through the wood chips. Not that I wanted to havethatconversation with Leander, either, but hopefully now he’d realize there was absolutely nothing between Dorian and I. It would be as gross as fornicating with Del. “How is your sister, anyway?”
“Oh, you know Dru...”
“Is she still playing with corpses?”
Dorian chuckled. “All day, every day. She has control over the whole empire.”
“Good for her.” I crossed the room and handed the samples to Leander, even though he didn’t so much as glance downward. “Dorian’s family made their money in the funeral industry.”
“Except me,” he corrected with a smile. “I’m the black sheep because I work with the living.”
“Drusilla works with the living,” I countered on her behalf. “She just prefers the dead.”
“Don’t we all?” Leander murmured, stepping away from me and walking to the fireplace. The wood samples clattered on the carved mantel a second before he braced both hands against it, his head hung.
Dorian shot me a confused look, but stayed silent.
I gave him a reassuring smile and a little wave toward the door. As he exited, I made my way to Leander. Propping my chin on his shoulder, I slipped my arms around his waist from behind. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“If you want to hire another firm, we can. I just thought, since Dorian specializes in historic hous—”
“It’s not that. He’s fine.I’mfine.”
“You’re not fine. You’ve barely said two words.”
“It’s this room,” he exhaled in an agonized whisper.
My hands slid up his torso, resting against his chest and pulling him back against me. His heart raced a mile a minute under my palm and he barely took a full breath. “She’s gone, my love.”
“Is she?” He swallowed hard, his muscles taut against me. “Every time I come in this room, I can feel her, lurking in the dark. As soon as I get complacent, she’s going to unleash more evil. I know it. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do.”
Tightening my arms around him, I pressed a kiss to the side of his face. “I’m right here with you. I’ll always be with you.”
“Until the day comes that you’re not.” Turning, he sidestepped, pulling out of my arms. He drifted out the door without another word or a backward glance. I tracked his steps up the servant stairs. Up, not down, which meant he was going to the tower.
For a moment, I worried I’d see his body go sailing past the window, reminiscent of his great aunt’s death. Swearing silently, I gave myself a mental slap.
It was this fucking house, that was all. The sooner I got him out of here, the better.
17
Bennett
One blissful morning while I sipped coffee and enjoyed a cloudless view of Lake Michigan, a notification popped up in my email, interrupting the brief I was in the middle of drafting. It was an update on Lorelei Clayton, of all goddamn people. I’d set up the alert when Leander was taken to Parkview Psychiatric earlier in the year and I’d apparently forgotten to delete it once his master plan was fulfilled.
I never saw an obituary for her, but I never looked, either. Once I left her laying in a puddle of blood in the parking lot of her precious psych ward, I data-dumped that bitch from my brain and moved on with my life. So why the fuck was she in my inbox?
Clicking on the news article out of curiosity, rage immediately flooded every single cell in my body. It wasn’t an obituary or a stupid “celebration of life” service. It was a motherfucking article in a psychology journal.
It seemed hell truly hath no fury like a woman scorned. Since she tried — and failed — to take me out, she turned her sights on my husband.
