Page 109 of Twisting Beauty

“You’ve become protective of him,” he murmured, thumb settling beneath my chin with that ghastly gentleness that felt like a violation. His signet ring flashed near my face, the engraved S C catching the foyer light like a branded promise.

I froze.

“That’s dangerous.” He leaned closer. “You’re forgetting who you belong to, pet.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the tenderness of the gesture making bile rise hot in the back of my throat.

Footsteps sounded from the open front door and Mervyn appeared carrying garment bags and a lacquered case, his expression carefully blank. “Everything is prepared for this evening, sir,” he said, eyes flicking only once toward me before dropping again. “The guests will arrive at eight.”

Guests? I glanced at Lorcan to catch his reaction. Our eyes met. He looked just as surprised.

“What’s happening this evening?” I asked, feigning casual curiosity.

“Drinks for some… new friends. And you,” Alistair pat my nose with his finger, “are going to take care of my guests, my unlucky girl.”

Alistair had turned the Lasair drawing room into a den. Candelabras were lit at intervals so the light fell warm and flattering, the air thick with expensive cologne and cigar smoke, a clash of symbols and notes in my mind, hired women in tight black dresses weaving through the red leather chairs, some with silver trays, all of them with a fixed smile.

Alistair’s hand found the small of my back as he steered me from one cluster of masked guests to another. His fingers closed around the crook of my elbow when he wanted me to stop moving. When he paused to speak to someone, his palm rested at the nape of my neck or at the small of my back, light enough to read as affectionate, heavy enough to read as claimed.

I played my part, played Rua. I kept my lashes lowered and a fixed smile, soft eyes with nothing behind them.

One of the masked guests had been watching me since my second circuit of the room. He stood in a corner leaning against a tall wooden bar table with a whiskey glass he wasn’t drinking from, his ringed finger running slow circles on the crystal rim.

My stomach flipped as Alistair steered me straight toward him.

“So glad you could make it,” Alistair said smoothly when we reached him. “I hope the evening is proving worth your time.”

The man gave a lazy nod, his gaze already on me. “Very much so,” he said. “And is she…?”

Alistair smiled. “This is my daughter.”

The answer did not change the man’s expression. His eyes moved over me once, then settled back on my face with the same barely restrained lust.

The smile stayed fixed on my mouth by force as I lifted my tray. “Would you care for another drink, sir?”

“No.” He tilted his head slightly, studying me with interest. “But perhaps you have something else to offer for I am… quite hungry.”

My smile faltered for a mere second.

Alistair said nothing.

I faked seeing someone wave at me. “Excuse me, I need to keep serving.”

I hurried away through the crush of bodies and candlelight, tray balanced too carefully in my hands. I glanced back and found him still watching me, his whiskey still untouched, his gaze fixed on me with the same oily patience.

Halfway to the next cluster of guests, the smell of clove and pepper caught in my nose. The familiar cello vibrated in my head, deep and bassy, slow across thick strings.

My fingers faltered on my tray. One crystal glass skidded against the silver with a sharp, betraying chime and tilted toward the edge.

A gloved hand closed around the stem, rebalanced it before releasing.

I turned to thank him.

His half-mask was silver and ornate, the nose extended into the long, curved beak of a plague doctor over an unmistakable strong jaw, his dark eyes peering out from behind the metalwork. A long dark cloak around his broad shoulders, clasped together with a silver dragon’s head.

Deargán.

What the fuck was he doing here?