6. Nora

6

NORA

E arly is on time. On time is late. And if you're going to be late, you might as well not show up.

It's a rule that was hammered into me by Pride, but one that's proven to be true—and more importantly, useful —as I've navigated the political ring within the Unseelie Court.

Being early means you have the opportunity to be settled in a space before others, to claim it as your own, so that everyone else is the "other."

Alternatively, it could mean spying something not intended for your eyes. Imogen taught me that one.

My thoughts flitter to my morning with the blond. Her amber eyes had a sad, disappointed sheen about them when I was leaving.

It made my insides twist.

It's not that I don't try to bask in the warmth of an early morning embrace. I do try. But it only lasts a minute before my skin starts to itch as we lay tangled and still.

It's the stillness that always pushes me from the bed, the silence too loud for my mind. Her gentle breath becomes a clock ticking down to the alarm. Thoughts cloud the edges of my vision: the pressure of the moment, the intimacy of it, the knowing each other that comes with waking together—it becomes too much.

And so, I sneak away when dawn wakes me. I slip from her bed before she can be roused from slumber. At least, I try to.

She's an addiction as much as my cigarettes are. I can't quit her, nor do I want to. But her side effects are something I don't know how to treat.

And then , as if to make my morning worse, I thought I lost the tonic sample.

When I got to the warehouse, Hattie talked me off the ledge. My inner circle played a game of he-said-she-said until they finally let me know that I apparently gave it to Wes to bring back amid the chaos of the party. An event of which I have no recollection of.

Then again, what do I remember from last night other than the flashes of Imogen's smile, her delicious moans, and the taste of wine mixed with her honeyed flesh on my tongue?

I must have been drunker than I thought last night…

"You okay?" Josie asks, ripping me from my thoughts.

She walks in pace with me as we step through the quiet halls of Silas's palace, an old castle-like structure that sits in the southern sector of the city. Our heels clack sharply against the marble floor: a mosaic pattern of black and silver stone that blends right in with the updated interior of the building. Silas is a monarch who keeps up with the times, a fact that provides me with a glimmer of hope that he'll accept my offer today.

I shake my head.

"I had a weird morning."

" Oh-kay ," Josie drawls.

"I'd rather not talk about it right now."

Josie might not be able to read my thoughts without me opening my mental shields for her, but she knows me well enough to sense my discomfort. She holds her tongue.

We stop outside two artfully carved wooden doors, the entrance to the formal meeting room, and Josie hands me a file folder containing our permit application.

"Kill ‘em dead," she says.

I snort. "Would make things easier, wouldn't it?"

Her head teeters back and forth. "Depends on who you ask. I'll meet you in the usual spot afterwards."

Josie takes her leave, heading to the private lounge where all the Seconds wait. It's their own kind of meeting, where they can size each other up or get intel, but in reality, Josie will shoot the shit with Leo for an hour.

I rest my hand on the gilded doorknobs and push, the metal ice-cold on my fingers.

The room is already set for eight, with water carafes and crystal glasses placed at each seat. Silver candlestick holders are topped with thin candles at the table's center, lit and dripping black wax. My fingers graze over the tops of the overly large chairs as I circle the table. Carvings that match the entry doors curve along the crest of the seats, extending down the arms and ending in small black cushions on which to rest your wrists.

I bank around the head seat and my nose twitches at the crisp musk and smoke scent imbued in the upholstery. It's reminiscent of an old book near a fireplace.

Three chairs line either side of the long table and another caps the head opposite Silas's seat, which is reserved for the eldest Sin, Sloth. The rest are fair game, though there is an unofficial seating chart we abide by.

As if on cue, the doors swing open, and Sloth hobbles in. He carries a cane with him, a gnarled piece of wood that is about as ancient as him.

Fae age gracefully; even on their deathbed, most look no more than a human sixty.

Sloth is an exception.

With long gray hair and wrinkled walnut skin, his near four hundred years is obvious.

I walk across the room and pull Sloth's seat back—the seat that Pride sat in before him—gesturing for the old man to sit. He huffs as he walks over, cane smacking against the stone floor with sharp fwacks .

"Always working, hm?" he says, a thin smile on his lips.

"You know I never turn off the charm."

Sloth is as crotchety as elders come, the traditional take-no-shit type who is long past his days of ambition and refuses to give up his seat. He's not unlike the former Pride in that regard, except he hasn't shown any noticeable signs of the Fading.

Most of the younger Sins tolerate him, but I enjoy his company. I like to think of him as an uncle of sorts.

I perch in my own seat, which is directly to his right, when the door opens and in walks Envy. The candlelight glints off his glossy black hair like an oil slick.

"Sloth," Envy says in greeting, giving Sloth all of two seconds of attention before gliding into his seat across from me. He unbuttons his red velvet suit jacket and lounges back into the chair, taking up far more space than he needs.

"Pride," he says with a feline smile, stark white teeth shining. His hazel, mono-lid eyes roam over me, from my chest up to my face. When he reaches my deadpan glare, his smile falters. "Warm as ever."

"To you, at least." I snort.

Envy waves a hand, and his glass fills with liquor. The cups are ancient relics that fill with the desired substance of the holder, created before magic was so structured. He gulps a finger-full down and sniffs, the alcohol singeing his sinuses.

"Do we think this one will be fast or not?" Envy asks, licking his lips. "I have a date at eight downtown."

I roll my eyes.

"It'll take as long as it takes. You should know better than to make plans. Especially for the first meeting of the quarter."

"I hate to admit it, but she's right, Envy," a deep voice croons from the doorway. "Don't want Silas to question how serious you are about your position."

I turn my head to meet the fiery red-brown eyes of Wrath. His sandy-brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, the hairstyle accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw. Akin to his House title, Wrath is ruthless. He took his House seat from his father by force, rather than waiting for the man to die of natural causes.

He sits in the seat at Silas's right.

Gluttony and Imogen stroll in together, chatting quietly. Gluttony is in a white dress that contrasts the deep brown of her skin; it cuts a sharp V on her torso and flares out into batwing sleeves. Her waist is cinched with a diamond encrusted belt, giving the businesswoman that old-money air.

They part ways. Gluttony heads to her seat next to Envy; meanwhile, Imogen takes hers next to me.

"Hi," she says.

"Lust," I say.

Her lips twist at the use of her title, even though it is the standard for these meetings. It's a sign of respect, but I've learned I can use it to tease her too.

"How did earlier go?" she asks.

Imogen grabs her glass, which immediately fills with wine, and takes a sip.

"Earlier?"

"With work?"

"Oh." I blink. "You know Hattie. Always a whirlwind when she's on shift. We were training someone new, and they were off put by how much she shadow-walks."

I hold back a wince at the way the newbie screamed every time Hattie appeared out of nowhere. It wouldn't be so bad if she didn't purposefully try to scare people when they worked.

"So, you really did have things to do," she says slowly.

My shoulders stiffen, and I reach into my pocket to pull out my cigarette case and lighter.

"Yes, I did," I say, lighting the cigarette and shoving it into my mouth.

But did I have to be there for their training? No. Hattie could have handled it herself. It's just close enough to a lie to make me feel a twinge of guilt about it.

I lean back in my chair and let the smoke unfurl around me. Imogen watches, caught in her own trance as I tap ash into my empty glass. Silas's staff never set out ashtrays.

"Pride, put that shit out. No one wants your secondhand smoke here." Envy pops our bubble of privacy with his whining. "Some of us are trying to make sure our complexion stays wrinkle free until at least two hundred and fifty," he continues, head swiveling between the other Sins for agreement.

None are too keen to join his quest. I roll my eyes at his usual dramatics, taking another unbothered drag.

"Look at Sloth." Envy points at the old man, and Sloth quirks a brow. "If you keep chain-smoking at these meetings, we're all going to be wrinkled like him in fifty years."

My lips thin into a cold smile, that petty little part of me coming alive. I stand, my chair scraping against the marble floor when I push it back. Leaning forward, I bring the cigarette to my mouth. Tucking it between my red-stained lips, I inhale.

And then I exhale.

Right into his face.

I drop the cigarette into his drink for good measure. It makes a short fizzle and bobs in the liquid. He blinks down at it, then up to me, shock written all over his face.

I shrug. "I was done anyway."

Sloth lets out an unfiltered cackle while Envy stutters. Even Gluttony snorts into her drink. As I sit back down, I catch Imogen holding back her laughter from behind a manicured hand.

Imogen is quite pretty tonight—like she always is—but the purple jewel-tone dress she wears compliments her golden hair perfectly.

I'll make it up to her tonight.

Orgasms fix everything.

Greed saunters in, clearing his throat as he steps through the door, demanding all our attention. And at last, we are seven.

I glance at the clock on the wall: eight minutes past six.

He's late . Again.

"Don't tell me I missed all the fun?" Greed quips, the lilt of his posh accent turning the words up at their ends.

Greed is the only Royal among the House leaders. While technically related to Silas, his family is too far removed to be considered a contender for the monarchy. However, that doesn't stop him from carrying the self-importance of a king.

"We were only getting started," Gluttony says, still recovering from her laugh. "You missed Envy making an ass of himself. Again."

"So, nothing new," Greed says. The candlelight shows off the warm tones in his brown skin and highlights the sparks of gold in his eyes.

Greed's body freezes when he sinks into his chair, a reaction to the chill that cuts through the air.

The Unseelie King has a habit of making you feel him before you see him. He's a cold front sweeping across the land. Shadows collect in front of the double doors, a mass of writhing snakes from which Silas's form materializes.

My eyes widen a fraction at the bright white wings that extend behind him. They are only visible for a moment, but they are a stark contrast against the shadows. His wings bristle, shaking off a dusting of snow before dematerializing.

In a few sharp steps he is across the room, suit jacket unbuttoned by deft, pale fingers, and lounging in his seat.

Silas turns to Greed.

"You were late."

I hold back a snort.

Greed's eyes narrow at the same time he shoots Silas a blinding smile. He ruffles his curly black hair as he speaks, as if he's trying to distract from the disdain shining in his eyes.

"My apologies, Your Majesty. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

Silas intertwines his fingers, leaning forward on his forearms with a vulpine grin. His eyes, twin night skies, trace over each of us with precision.

They meet mine last.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

The meeting flies by as it normally does—going, by seniority, through each House's monthly status reports. Silas is mostly quiet as each Sin talks, only speaking when he needs to. And after listening to forty-two minutes of other Houses' business, it's my turn.

I clear my throat, pulling out the papers of my proposal.

"House Pride's standard operations are running as usual," I say. "However, there is one new proposal I would like to discuss today?—"

Silas raises a single hand, cutting off my speech with only a movement.

"I want to stop you right there, Pride," he says. His mask of indifference has melted into one of cunning, like a cat who's caught a canary. "A little bird brought to my attention a concerning fact about your recent imports from the Human Realm."

My stomach drops as Silas reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out one of our Seelie tonics. He places it down, the glass refracting the candlelight into a spatter of rainbows across the room.

How did he get that?

My thoughts run fast and swift through my mind, carrying with them a slew of emotions. I catalog the last twenty-four hours, scouring over every interaction. The tonic. The Den. Imogen, this morning. Wes—who was carrying a tonic this morning, human-side , not in Faerie.

It all leads me to one harrowing conclusion.

My eyes cut to Imogen, whose back is ramrod straight and eyes are trained on the bottle. Her lips are parted in shock. But it's her eyes, which are laden with guilt, that have betrayal cutting through my own shock. I'm so, so stupid.

I knew I didn't leave it at the office.

My tongue runs over my teeth as I push all my muddled thoughts and inconvenient emotions away. I lock it all away, falling into the practiced persona of Pride to get me through this conversation.

"If you would have waited about thirty seconds, I would have gotten to that," I say.

"So, you're not denying you brought Seelie goods across the Veil," Silas says, eyes narrowing at me.

Envy whistles. "Busted."

"Zip it, Envy," Imogen snaps.

"I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking," Envy whisper-yells.

Ignoring them, I slide my folder across the table.

"I have all the permit applications right here. Before you interrupted, I was going to walk you all through my proposal."

Silas's white brows knit together, and a frown tugs his rosy lips down as he flips through the papers. He'll find everything in order, including a prepayment for taxes. I knew if I was going to do this, I had to stack the odds in my favor.

"That bottle is simply a sample. Risky, I know. But all great business decisions require a level of risk," I add.

"So, you don't already have a stockpile of these healing tonics?" Silas asks.

" Nora —" Imogen whispers a warning.

" You've done enough ," I snap back at her before returning my attention to Silas. "No, I do. However, I have them stored human-side. Where you technically don't have jurisdiction."

"That's bold of you," Silas says.

"Some would argue it's smart."

He points to the bottle on the table. "This wasn't smart."

"I've already explained that. And I don't take kindly to being scolded."

That pulls a snort from him. "It's only scolding if you've done something wrong, Pride."

"Have I?" I challenge.

"Done something wrong?"

"Mhm."

There's a beat of silence where the tension in the air grows thick. But then, a white-toothed grin spreads across Silas's face. It's not one that eases any of the nerves firing up and down my spine, it's one of devilish intrigue.

"Tell me why," he demands.

My throat bobs.

Why what ? Why would I take the risk? Why healing tonics specifically and not something else?

Or is it deeper than that—why work with the Seelie at all? And how does my gut already know that he means the latter?

Josie's going to kill me.

"I've never been anything but honest about my intentions for my House or the Court when you've asked, Your Majesty," I say, letting the words run slow and sweet like honey off my tongue.

And it is the truth.

One thing that was abundantly clear from my time shadowing Pride during his tenure with the Court is that you don't lie to the king.

Half-truths and omissions are fair game, sure. But I've heard the stories of those who betrayed Silas's trust—or at least tried to swindle him for their own benefit. Their lives didn't last very long, and their deaths didn't sound pleasant.

It's like he can taste them in the air, the lies.

"And I believe you," Silas murmurs, almost in annoyance. "Which is part of the problem," he adds under his breath. "So, I ask again, why?"

"I want more power than all of them," I say, jabbing a thumb at the other Sins. "And I see this as a perfect opportunity to take that. The fact that it'll help the common folk and the upper echelon alike simply sweetens the deal."

There's a beat of silence where he searches my face.

"But there's more," he adds.

I huff a laugh.

Intuitive bastard .

"There's always more," I say.

Silas glances around the room, as if remembering that there are six other people listening to our conversation. He clears his throat.

"You aren't allowed to bring any more across the Veil until your permits are fully approved." He gathers the papers and neatly places them back into their folder. Relief sags my shoulders. "And they will be approved, provided that I have full access to your operations going forward."

"Pardon?"

"I think we'll be excellent business partners, Pride," he says, that sly smile on his face once again. The man runs through expressions as quickly as Envy goes through girls. He nods to the door, dismissing all of us. "I think we're done here."

The room is a cacophony of chairs scratching against the floor as the Sins depart.

"And Pride," Silas calls before I exit. "Do keep me updated."

As soon as I step from the meeting room, the measly control I have on my emotions breaks, and rage pumps through my blood. I'm seething and spiraling, and I need to get away .

"Nora!"

My pace is rushed, my hands shake, and my boots clack sharply against the floor as I turn away from the exit and tread deeper into the palace. I know this feeling well, the overwhelm. It's worse this time around, and I need to put distance between myself and Imogen before I say something cruel.

"Nora!"

Josie always says my words are punishing when I'm like this—when my heartbeat is in my ears and my chest is caving in. She says that I should try to walk away, get a clearer head, rather than fall prey to my anger.

But Imogen follows me still, and I fall into the red-tinged haze anyway.

"Nora, please wait."

I whip around as we turn a corner, a growl ripping from my throat.

"What the fuck was that?" I point over her shoulder.

She jolts back a step, mouth parted. I don't think she's ever heard such vitriol in my tone before. I tend to keep this side of myself far away from her.

There's a reason for that.

"I just want to ex?—"

"No. You don't get to talk right now, Imogen. I thought you were better than the rest of them," I seethe.

There are a few feet between us, and our voices echo in the empty hall. I take a step forward.

"Since college, you've kept your House business to yourself. I was fine with that. I don't tell you everything either. But that's because it's bloody business that you shouldn't have to hear about. I didn't realize you kept quiet because you were rattling secrets off to Silas behind my back!"

"I haven't been rattling secr?—"

I cut her off with a huff of sardonic laughter.

"I'm not an idiot, so spare me. It's clear you're just as much a sellout to Silas as the rest of them."

My words are pointed, aimed to hurt. They land their marks, each one hunching Imogen's shoulders more than the last. And I don't hold any of them back.

"I knew something wasn't right this morning, but Hattie said she saw Wes with one, and he said I gave it to him—which I'm now realizing means he tried to sneak one for himself, that stupid little shit ."

I groan and shake my head, a physical attempt to break the spiral I'm headed down. I turn my attention back to the woman in front of me, lips curling into a sneer.

"Did you have one of your staff slip it from my coat while we were dancing, or were you the one to do it?" I ask.

The accusation has Imogen pulling her shoulders back, a determined glint filling her eyes.

"No. No . I didn't take it on purpose. It fell out of your coat and rolled under the bed, and then Silas showed up before I could tell you and?—"

"Before you could tell me?" I snap. I step forward again, closing the distance between us. She takes a step back in turn and her shoulders hit the wall. "I asked if you saw it, and you lied to my face. Why wouldn't you tell me right away?"

Imogen scoffs. "Because me saying ‘Hey, I found illegal substances in your coat. What's up with that?' right after I caught you trying to sneak out would have gone over real well."

"It would have been better than Silas blindsiding me."

The tension between us buzzes as I cage her in against the wall. The position is familiar, one we've been in too many times before. My eyes fall to her lips; they're puffy from her nervously biting at the skin there. I'd usually be capturing them in a kiss—I still want to capture them in a kiss.

Instead, I meet her gaze. I stare into those golden globes as I systematically shut down my emotions. I wrangle every drop of lust pumping through my veins. My shock and my hurt go too. I lock them all in tiny boxes in the back of my mind, despite the fight they give me for doing so.

I only leave my rage alone.

And then I land a final, cruel blow.

"I'm damn lucky I was prepared with a proposal and that Silas seems so interested because otherwise I'd be screwed. I'd probably be dead. And it would have been your fault ."

Her mouth twists into a pained expression, and her amber eyes glow with gathering tears. She tears her gaze away, unable to meet my eye; the action douses the burning flames of anger within me, leaving my insides as steaming, bitter ashes of betrayal.

I can count the number of people I trust on one hand—Josie, Hattie, Claude—a chosen few. I had thought Imogen could be included in that list. We've been friends long enough, and we had whatever this thing was between us.

Unfamiliar pain stabs my gut. It's the kind of foreboding ache that alludes to future regret.

I try to ignore it, erecting another wall around an inconvenient emotion.

A numbness takes over me.

"He's been having you spy on me," I say. Not so much a question as a statement of her duplicity.

Imogen swallows on her nod.

"How long?" I ask.

Quick footsteps approach from behind us.

"Hey, Nora, we have a problem," Josie says beside me.

I hold up a finger. "I need a second, Josie."

I grasp Imogen's chin, pulling her face to mine. I force her to look me in the eye.

"How long?" I repeat.

"A year," she says softly, voice breaking. "I had to."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Imogen."

Releasing her, I pace backward. I rub my leather-clad fingers over my jaw, hoping to release some of the tightness there.

"I'm really sorry to interrupt whatever is happening here, but we need to leave," Josie steps into my line of sight. "We have a situation human-side."

The look of concern on her face has dread dropping in my stomach.

Shit . That isn't good.

I spare a glance at Imogen, and it only serves to scramble my insides more, a toxic mix of emotions that curdle my blood.

"Go," Imogen says.

I sigh, pulling myself together. I turn my back on Imogen.

"Let's go. Fill me in on the way," I say to Josie.

I start down the hall.

"Sorry, Mo." I hear Josie say behind me.

I should stay, say something else to Imogen, but I don't have any more words.