Page 110 of Twisting Beauty

I buried the recognition before it reached my face. I kept my smile in place, already composing the soft, slightly breathless thanks that Rua would have offered a stranger. All the while trying to figure out how I could get him alone so I could grill him on why he was threatening everything by showing up here.

“There you are, pet.” Alistair materialized at my shoulder.

I stiffened, my horror morphing as his hand settled at the back of my neck. His thumb moved once, slowly tracing a small arc against my skin.

But I kept my tray level. I kept my face smooth.

I glanced between Deargán and Alistair, praying that Deargán’s disguise held. That Alistair didn’t recognize the man trying to destroy him, standing right in front of him.

Deargán’s body went rigid as his gaze darted to where Alistair held me by my neck. A single muscle jumped in his jaw once and then locked down into nothing. But I had seen it.

Alistair studied Deargán, his gaze moving across the plague doctor mask. “I don’t remember greeting you earlier, Mr.…”

Shite. I kept my eyes on the middle distance, my smile soft and vacant, and I prayed to any god still paying attention that the man behind that mask had enough composure left in him not to crack.

He was standing in the middle of the lion’s den and the lion had just fixed on him.

33

DEARGÁN

The first time Alistair’s hand found the small of her back, I forced myself to turn away.

I was here for the mission. Not for her.

The second time, his fingers closed around her elbow to steer her left, it was harder not to react.

The third time, his palm settled at the base of her spine, and something dark and ugly twisted in my chest.

Now I was standing in front of her, because I stupidly couldn’t stay away.

And the devil himself had taken his place next to her, his hand secured around back of her neck like she belonged to him.

Rage and disgust hit me so hard my grip tightened on the stem of my champagne glass. For one vicious second, I almost snapped this flute in half and stabbed the broken end into his jugular.

But I restrained myself. I breathed through it. Kept my weight even, my chin level, my tongue pressing behind my teeth.

If I wanted to just kill him, I could have done that years ago. A quick knife under the ribs while he was asleep. Done.

He deserved to suffer. He deserved for me to take everything away from him, piece by piece. To shatter his precious empire. To destroy his legacy. To end his only heir.

Beneath my anger, something more foul moved.

I had sent her here. I had decided the risk was acceptable, and now I was standing three feet from the proof of what that had actually meant.

Her knuckles were white on the tray. But her smile was in place. She was performing beautifully. And I was the one who had put her in the position of needing to.

Alistair’s thumb dragged against the side of her throat. “I don’t remember greeting you earlier, Mr.…”

My jaw tightened under my mask.

“Mikhailov,” I said, transforming my speech into a clipped Russian accent. “Aleksei Mikhailov of St. Petersburg.”

Bas had built my Mikhailov cover quickly, linking it to the Volkovs, a prominent underworld family. The cover included legitimate-looking IDs and a deadly reputation.

I didn’t ask how he did it. I didn’t want to know. I just cared that it held when Alistair dug into it.

Apparently, it did.