Page 74 of Twisting Beauty

His eyes didn’t smile as he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear, sending shivers rushing down my body in a waterfall.

“You should be more careful who you flirt with.”

23

LIATH

The corridor of Alistair’s wing was quiet. Too quiet. My breath rasped in my ears, far too loud, and my heartbeat battered hard enough to make me feel exposed.

The portraits of dead Lasairs stared at me as I snuck past, their cold dead eyes accusing. Watching for me to slip. Waiting for me to get caught.

I neared Alistair’s bedroom door, my hand trembling as I reached for the handle.

The last time I’d broken in, Lorcan had caught me. The back of my neck prickled with the memory of it, a heat going through me at the memory of his cruel game, the way he slashed his knife through my clothes baring me to his eyes and his judgment.

My pulse kicked once but I kept moving.

I checked both directions, listening for footsteps. Then I slipped inside.

The curtains were drawn so it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim, the bitterness of wormwood and green anise pressing into the back of my throat, the pipe organ note low in my skull like a warning tone.

I crossed to the bookcase.

I’d watched his hand from behind the drapes, the way he’d run his fingers along the carved edging on the side panel. I worked along the same strip now, pressing each raised thorn and serpent’s head until one of them gave, clicking inward under my thumb.

Yes!

The whole case shifted, revealing his secret study.

A desk lamp burned low on the other side, as if he’d only just left, as if he’d be right back at any moment.

I had to hurry.

I moved to the first drawer and started rifling through the papers.

It was a report written from the desk of the Ravenwood research laboratories. There were compound names and dosage schedules tabulated in columns, trial notations, dates. Someone had written breakthrough! in the margin of one page and circled it twice.

My stomach turned slowly.

My mind flashed back to those little paper cups they queued up for us each night. Were they performing drug trials on the girls?

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and slid the drawer.

Something clacked at the back of it.

I pulled it open again.

A small glass vial had rolled forward from wherever it had been wedged, clear liquid inside. I turned the label toward the lamp.

On it was a single handwritten word.

M15.

The drug from the report?

I weighed it in my palm for a second, then pocketed it. Deargán might know.

The next drawer was filled with legal documents, filed by case number. Not by name. I pulled out the first one and the legal language swam in front of me.