Chapter 11

G litz and glamor aren’t all they’re jacked up to be. My expensive burgundy dress is slowly suffocating me, and my boobs alone are so pushed up that they threaten to touch my chin. Women mill around in expensive gowns, Venetian eye masks, and high updos. Meanwhile, their narcissistic husbands, dressed in tuxedos, eye up the young waitresses like they’re juicy pieces of steak.

The stench of Chanel and greed pricks my nose as Darian steers me deeper into the sparkling ballroom with his hand on my lower back. It’s unfair how devilishly handsome he looks, groomed to the nines with his dark hair slicked back and a black eye mask with intricate detailing.

“Try not to glower.” His low, seductive voice caresses my ear.

A shiver runs through me, so to distract myself, I turn and grab a champagne flute from a male waiter’s tray. I down it in one go, watching his firm ass weave effortlessly through the crowds.

Darian’s fingers dance higher up my spine, and then he’s gripping the back of my neck firmly enough to make me yelp. “Look at another man like that again, and I’ll see to it that they walk out of here dickless.”

He steers me forward, nodding politely to mustached, balding men. I smile at a stranger, discarding my flute on another passing tray. “You can let go of me now.”

“And trust you to behave?” he grumbles. “I think not. You’ll destroy the nearest artwork if I let you out of sight.”

I whirl around. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Darian’s left eye twitches, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Sinclair joins us with another flute of champagne.

As he hands it to me, I happily accept it, and they watch me gulp it down.

“Where did you find her again?” Sinclair asks, amused, sipping his bubbly.

“Either a back alley of some dingey bar or a circus,” Darian replies drily, snatching the flute from my hand before I’ve had time to drink it all.

“Hey!” I protest.

Ignoring me, they scan the room. “Think Beaumont will show his face?” Sinclair asks.

“I know he will.” Darian puts the half-full flute on a floating tray. “Now that the news about my mysterious marriage has broken, he’ll sniff blood.”

“He’s harmless.” Sinclair smacks Darian on the back the way men do—a little too hard. Darian grunts. “You’ve dealt with worse sharks.”

“Who’s Beaumont?” I ask, pretending to be very interested in the scenery.

“Oh, no one special.” Sinclair sounds conversational, but there’s a bite to his tone.

“I sense a story.” I inch closer and trail my tongue over my lip, if only to evoke a reaction from my husband, who looks mildly annoyed by the inconvenience of attending such a tedious event .

Those were his words. Not mine.

Sinclair smirks around the rim of his flute when I place my hand on his arm.

“I love a good story.”

“Is that so?”

I make an agreeing sound, but it turns into a very unladylike squeak when Darian rips me away from Sinclair by the neck.

“That’s enough flirting with Mr. Sinclair,” he says tersely, disposing me unceremoniously by his side.

Sinclair chuckles as he pushes his circular glasses up his nose, having forgone an eye mask. “Are you sure you have a handle on your wife? She’s a wild one.”

“About that story?—”

Darian shuts me up with a single glare.

Sinclair’s amused gaze bounces between us. He drinks the last of his champagne and hands it to a man in a tux who is certainly not a waiter, and then he interrupts mine and Darian’s stare-off with another one of his smooth laughs. “I see you’ve met your match, Delacroix. She’s a keeper.”

Darian snorts, and I narrow my eyes.

Sinclair focuses on me. “Beaumont is your husband’s archenemy.”

“Archenemy?” I deadpan. “Seriously?”

“Oh yes, quite. Beaumont is a… What’s the word?” He pretends to think and then clicks his fingers. “Asshole.”

“Oookay.” I give him a ‘you’re weird’ look.

Sinclair humors me. “Your husband is such a friendly gentleman. Last year, in fact, he took immense pleasure in sabotaging Mr. Beaumont’s weapon trade, which ruined his career.”

My mouth falls open, and I look at Darian. “You did what?”

He rolls his eyes and then surveys the crowd.

“In his defense…” Sinclair continues. “Their feud goes way back. The Beaumonts have tried to destroy his family’s business and reputation for generations.”

“I don’t see how that justifies ruining a man. Shouldn’t you turn the other cheek or something?”

Darian laughs—actually laughs, but then he stops just as fast and knocks on my head. “Hello? Anybody home?”

I bat him off. “Jerk.”

“Oh, honey, wasn’t two orgasms this morning enough for you? Do I have to remind you that we’re at a fundraiser event for orphaned kittens? This isn’t the place for dirty talk.”

Sinclair steals another flute of champagne, shoulders shaking with stifled laughter.

“This isn’t a fucking fundraiser for orphaned kittens.” I arch a brow, my hand already on my cocked hip. Next, I’ll stomp my foot or smack his annoyingly handsome face.

“No?” he asks, turning his whole body to face me. “What is this fundraiser for if not to raise money for fluffy animals needing rescuing?”

“You tell me,” I challenge. “You’re an Elder of a secret society. Whatever this is”—I wave a hand around the milling billionaires and their dolled-up wives—“it’s a front for what’s actually going on here.”

“It’s not a very secret society if you know about it.” His blue eyes sparkle, challenging me to more than a verbal duel.

We stare at each other, and Darian smirks in that infuriating way he has.

Sinclair clears his throat. “Only two orgasms? Should have gone for a third, Delacroix. I thought I taught you better.”

“We didn’t fuck this morning,” I clarify. “To fuck, he would need to know how to get hard.” I break away from Darian’s ocean eyes, wetting my lips, surveying the crowd. “They sell pills for that now.”

Sinclair throws his head back and laughs.

I bow at the knees and then smile sweetly at my husband, who looks like he might explode any moment now. Even the tips of his ears are red. “I’m going to powder my nose.”

“You didn’t complain yesterday when I fucked you three times in the office!” he shouts as I walk away.

Shocked gasps ring out around us, and the ladies in the room clutch their pearl necklaces while their husbands twitch their mustaches in disapproval, as if they weren’t hacking humans to pieces or watching orgies mere weeks ago during the Reckoning. But this ruffles their feathers? Hypocrites.

I make a beeline for the bathroom, furious and humiliated.

How dare Darian tell everyone present that I suffered a temporary lapse in judgment yesterday. One of many where that infuriating man is concerned.

I should’ve never slept with him again. I could be pregnant for all I know.

Barging into the bathroom like a derailing train, I nearly barrel through a gray-haired woman, who stumbles back with a mortified gasp. What is it with these people? One moment, they spend ten hours killing humans for sport to show the leaders of the world that they’re above the law. Then they dress up in expensive clothing and fancy masks and parade around a ballroom like this is a debutante ball for the Upper West Side’s elite.

I ignore the woman’s disapproving tut as I enter one of the stalls, half expecting someone to wipe my backside for me with dollar bills. The stall alone could classify as a bathroom suite to some.

After I’ve relieved myself, I wash my hands while avoiding eye contact with anyone entering the bathroom. My mother was a van der Meer; I was born into this world of money and power—secret society royalty. Thanks to my father’s inheritance, I’m not short of old money. I’ve got my own fortune. But I was young when he disappeared on Reckoning night. Mom packed our things and moved us somewhere no one would find us. Years passed, and I grew used to a different way of living.

After drying my hands, I exit the bathroom.

The hallway is a quiet reprieve from the busy ballroom, so I lean against the wall while listening to the muted hum of conversation, soft piano music, and the clink of flutes.

A fire exit catches my attention, the door propped open with a brick. How long would it take Darian to realize I’m gone? How long before his Pawns chase after me? How far could I make it? Far enough to jump on a train or a bus?

“Why is such a beautiful woman like yourself hiding out here?” a deep voice asks.

My head shoots up.

A man with short brown hair, thin lips, and sideburns that could rival Mr. Darcy’s in the Keira Knightley adaptation of Pride and Prejudice waltzes closer.

I back away out of instinct, but stop when my back connects with a Greek statue. “I’m not hiding.”

He’s close now. Close enough that I can smell the cedarwood and woodsy amber notes of his cologne.

His eyes drift over my shoulder. “You’re out here by yourself. Looks to me like you’re hiding.”

“You are?” I ask, uneasy.

He smiles at me, but there’s nothing warm about it. “Where are my manners? I’m Mr. Beaumont.” Taking my hand, he places a kiss on my knuckles.

I try to free my fingers from his steel grip without luck. Aside from the whole ‘enemy of my husband’ dilemma, something about him sets me on edge. He’s undressing me with his eyes in a way that slithers over my skin like slick eels.

His eyes bore into me as he lingers with his lips on my skin, and I try to yank my hand away again.

Releasing me, he straightens. “You look breathtaking tonight, Miss van der Meer.”

“Drop the flattery. How do you know my maiden name?”

“I have my ways, but don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

I try to slide from between him and the Greek statue at my back, but he blocks my path, imposing and large.

“I can help you.”

“Help me? I doubt it.” I try to sidestep him again.

Beaumont doesn’t stop me this time.

My shoulder brushes against his chest, and I try not to sprint.

I hate feeling like I’ve turned my back on an enemy, but I also refuse to show weakness when I’m unarmed and at a disadvantage to the opposition.

“Don’t you want to find out what happened to your father?” he calls out.

I can hear the assured smile in his voice. Beaumont knows he’s caught me on his hook, and he humors me by allowing me to walk away because he knows I’ll turn around.

“Let me guess. That husband of yours isn’t giving you the answers you seek.”

I come to a halt. Don’t fall for it. He’s baiting you on purpose. Don’t turn around.

As I hold my breath, my frantic pulse pounds in my throat.

“Mr. Delacroix knows more about your father’s fate than he lets on.”

I’m sure my heart is about to beat out of my chest. I’ve looked for answers for so long without luck. Everywhere I turned was another dead-end, and I was ready to throw it all out, ready to die if it meant killing as many members of this corrupt secret society as possible. At least then, I would have dented their armor.

I slowly turn around. “What do you know about my father?”

His eyes crease at the corners, reminding me of a cat who caught the canary.

Before I know what’s happening, I’m striding up to him like a woman on a mission. “What do you know about my father?” I ask more forcefully this time.

He reaches out to trace my collarbone with his finger, so I swat him away.

“Don’t touch me!”

Chuckling, he slides the offending hand into his pocket. “I know your husband is connected to your father’s disappearance.”

“How do you know that? More importantly, how can I trust you? I know all about your family rivalry.” I don’t. “What if you’re making this up? For all I know, you murdered my father…” I step closer, baring my teeth. “And I should kill you.”

“You can’t trust me,” he replies with a shrug, ignoring my threat, “but I’m your best shot at finding answers.”

“What’s in it for you? Money? I heard about your financial woes after Darian sabotaged your weapon run.”

His eyes darken, and he looks away, rubbing his ticking jaw. When he returns his focus to me, my insides shrivel. If hatred had a face, it’s staring back at me now. “Your money is no good to me, Mrs. Delacroix.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Information about your husband.”

“You want me to be your spy?”

“ Informant. But we can go with the word ‘spy’ if that makes you happy.”

“And why would I help you?”

“Because I can give you answers about your father.”

“You said that already, and somehow, I don’t believe you.”

A man walks past, nodding a greeting to Mr. Beaumont. I dip my head.

“How about I sweeten the deal with a sign of goodwill,” he continues, watching the man enter the men’s bathroom. He waits until we’re alone and safe from prying ears before fishing a creased, unopened letter from his inside pocket. “Lauren sends her regards.”

My eyes widen with surprise as he holds it out of reach.

“Provide me with sensitive information about your husband, and I will investigate your father’s disappearance and let you have Lauren’s letter.”

“How do I know it’s a letter from her? What if you’re bluffing?”

He angles it. “Recognize the handwriting?”

I feel an ache spread through my chest. Lauren wrote me. Suddenly, I want to be alone so I can read her words in private. I need to know that she’s okay. “How is it a sign of goodwill if you won’t let me read it now?”

“Let’s call it more of an incentive to give me what I want. I’ll see you around soon, Mrs. Delacroix.” He tucks the letter into his inside pocket before sliding away like a shadow.

I’m too shaken up to rejoin the party, but Darian will grow suspicious if I don’t return soon, so I shake out my trembling hands and smooth down my dress.

The first thing I notice when I enter the ballroom is that my husband and Sinclair are not where I left them. I search the crowd until my eyes land on my husband by the tables.

A slender woman with chestnut hair, perfectly curled and arranged into an even more perfect hairdo, hangs off his arm like he’s a prized possession she won at a carnival. He looks mildly inconvenienced by her presence but makes no move to peel her off, and when she pushes her generous tits against his arm, he checks his watch.

“Uh-oh, that’s the governor’s wife.” Sinclair’s voice slithers into my ear from behind like a serpent’s tongue. “She’s had a thing for our Delacroix forever.”

“I see what you’re doing, Sinclair. You’re trying to make me jealous.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he snickers, flicking my eye mask, towering beside me. “I don’t have to try. You look like a wet dick slapped you in the face.”

“Are you always so crass?” I ask, now glowering at my husband and the governor’s wife.

Why is he allowing her to rub her tits against his Armani tux?

Darian spots us, his eyes hardening, though he still lets the parasite cling to him like a leech.

“It’s a gift,” Sinclair replies, waiting for effect. “Word on the street is that she has better suction than a Dyson.” He slinks away, giving the devil on my shoulder enough material to taunt my angel for the next century.

Does he like her? She’s pretty, with her big breasts threatening to spill out of her dress and legs that go on for miles, judging by the high slit in her skirt.

Because my dignity has left the party with what little common sense I have left, I spin on my heel and all but run for the fire exit. Fuck him and Mrs. Dyson. I refuse to stick around and watch him flirt with someone else.

Before I have a chance to exit the ballroom, Sinclair blocks my path and takes my hand like a gentleman from Tudor times. He presses a kiss to my knuckles. “In a rush somewhere?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I snatch my hand back with a huff.

“Immensely. You should really do something about that dick imprint on your cheek.”

I sneer, trying to move past him, but he takes up more space than a damn tank.

“Can I have this dance?” he asks.

That’s when I notice the waltz music.

“I don’t think that’s a?—”

“I wasn’t asking.” He guides me to the middle of the room, where men and women twirl and dip.

“I’ve never waltzed in my life.”

“Good thing I’m an expert.”

I give him a critical look before eyeing the hallway longingly. If only he wouldn’t insist on dancing. I could escape this wretched place and forget about Darian and the conflicting emotions he stirs. I could live the rest of my life on the run. It’s what I’ve done for years.

My lips part when Sinclair puts his big hand on my lower back and pulls me close. What is it about men smelling like sex gods in this corrupt world? Why can’t they be gentle on women’s hearts by smelling of sweat and bad oral hygiene?

Taking my other hand, he begins to lead the dance. I stumble over my feet like a newborn lamb. My mom did everything in her power to shield me from the wolves, yet here I am, dancing in the forest beneath a full moon. If she saw me now, she’d squirm in her grave.

“You’ll never survive this world if you run,” Sinclair says, keeping his voice low. “You were born and bred by Exodus royalty. Act like it.”

My pride prickles. “I never asked for this.”

“What did you ask for, Mrs. Delacroix? To be murdered in cold blood by monsters? Did you think your little stunt at the Reckoning would have made a difference? That your mother would be proud? Your father avenged by your act of rebellion? You’re smarter than this.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss, meeting his hard eyes. “You know nothing.”

“I know you’re married to one of the most powerful men in this room. You need to toughen up, or you’ll become chum to the sharks. Look around you, Mrs. Delacroix. They’re foaming at the mouth. Whether you like it or not, you’ve been dragged back into this world.”

“And whose fault is that?” I glare up at him. “I never asked to marry your friend.”

“That may be so, but you looked like a wounded puppy when you watched him with the governor’s wife.”

“I did not—” I stop myself from saying more. Why am I justifying myself to this man? I don’t owe him an explanation.

“Darian is a lot of things,” Sinclair says conversationally, twirling me like a pirouetting ballerina, “but he’s not a cheater.”

“No?” I slam into his chest again, winded and dizzy. “Why did he let that woman paw him?”

“You offended his sexual prowess. Pride has always been your husband’s biggest downfall. While he can murder in cold blood without batting an eye, he doesn’t know how to handle emotions. You’re uncharted territory, Mrs. Delacroix.” He dips me so low my hair touches the floor. “His mission with that little stunt was a success.”

“What mission?” I ask, clinging to his shoulders for dear life so I don’t fall.

He finally straightens. “To make you jealous.”

As we dance by a couple, I catch sight of Darian. The woman is gone, and my husband is staring at me like he wants to douse me with gasoline and set me on fire.

“And now he’s jealous,” Sinclair drawls, then spins me again and pulls me back into his arms. “Do me a favor and fuck the rage out of him after this.”

I roll my eyes, finally learning the sequence of steps to this dance. “Should you encourage such toxicity?”

“With all due respect, it’s the best recipe for amazing sex.”

Darian is on his way over within the next second, tense and on edge, as Sinclair dips me again.

“I charge by the minute. You can write me a check.”

“Sorry? A check?”

He straightens and pulls me up. “Marriage counseling. You’re welcome, by the way.” Stepping back, he hands me over to Darian, who glares at him like he’s two seconds away from ripping his head off. “Thank you for letting me take her for a spin.”

He’s gone before Darian has a chance to open his mouth, though I doubt he could if he wanted to. His jaw is screwed shut, a muscle ticking madly in his cheek.

Without a word, he aggressively pulls me to him and begins to dance, causing a surprised squeak to tumble from my lips as I crash into his hard chest.

“You seem awfully interested in my friend. Do I need to remind you whose wife you are?”

“Like you’re one to speak,” I snap. “You looked very cozy with that woman.”

“Mrs. Auclair?”

Just her name on his lips makes me see red.

Don’t march over to her table and claw her eyes out.

Darian twirls me once, then twice. “You’re ready to run at the first sight of a woman flirting with me? I’m disappointed. I thought you had more backbone than that. What happened to the beautiful, fiery woman who crashed the Reckoning party, ready to die for a taste of revenge?”

I refuse to reply. He can take his smug face and kindly fuck off to Mars. Or better yet, the farthest distant planet in the galaxy. Scrap that, make it the goddamn universe.

Darian flicks my nose. “You flare your nostrils when you’re angry.”

“And you clench your jaw when you’re mad. I think we’ve established that we have equally good observational skills.”

“Your smart mouth makes me hard,” he states, like we’re discussing the latest affairs in Congress. How he can remain calm when he’s vibrating with repressed anger and testosterone is impressive. Meanwhile, I’m barely keeping the snarl off my face.

“Your smart mouth doesn’t make me wet.”

He spins me so fast that I swear I’m on a Graviton ride. Nausea clenches my stomach when he finally pulls me against his chest. “Don’t mistake me for a gentleman, Mrs. Delacroix. We both know you’re soaking your panties, and I won’t hesitate to finger your tight pussy in front of everyone to prove my point.” Quick as a flash, his hand finds the slit in my dress, and he hikes it up my thigh with a possessive look in his cobalt eyes, ready to devour me.

I grab his wrist to stop him, aware of the dancing couples around us. We must look weird, standing in the middle of the dance floor. “Please, don’t do this here.”

He has the decency not to flaunt his triumph as we resume dancing. Darian drinks me in, and I know for certain, no man has ever looked at me with such hunger.

It’s impossible not to flush beneath the weight of his full attention.

“I must admit,” he says, “I wanted to flay him alive when I saw you two dancing.”

“He’s a good dancer. Smells nice, too.”

Why am I antagonizing him? Not only is it cruel, but it’s also immature. I’m better than that. Better than my petty jealousy. Even so, I can’t get the image of Mrs. Auclair all over him out of my mind, which is messing with my head.

In a swift move, Darian flips me around so that his chest is against my back. Goosebumps litter my arms as he curls his fingers around my throat and brushes his warm lips over the shell of my ear. “You’re begging for a hard spanking, wife. ”

“Give me your worst,” I spit, sounding braver than I am while quivering on the inside.

His chuckle dances over the curve of my neck, low and husky—a nefarious, delicious threat.

He takes my hand and drags me off the dance floor, past a smirking Sinclair, who raises his glass and winks, but I don’t have time to flip him off before we stumble into the hallway.

Two Pawns guard the grand staircase, their faces hidden behind animal masks, but they part like a curtain upon seeing us.

“You two, upstairs now,” Darian demands, then pulls me along, giving me no choice but to follow.

His grip on my hand is so tight that I wouldn’t be surprised if he cuts off my blood supply.

The Pawns exchange glances, but they don’t object, and I get it. No one says no to Darian Delacroix.

We reach the landing. Gold-framed paintings larger than me line the walls, and a glass dome overhead overlooks the foyer downstairs and the second-floor balcony.

I stay clear of the banister in case my husband decides he’s had enough of my attitude.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask nervously, aware of the Pawns behind us.

Darian opens a door to a spare bedroom and shoves me unceremoniously inside. I stumble onto the gleaming marble floor, surprised by the dark energy emanating from Darian as he removes his suit jacket.

The Pawns close the door, hovering awkwardly, waiting for my husband to give them orders.

I try to stand up, but Darian bites out, “Stay.”

On his way to the bar in the far corner of the room, he loosens his bowtie and uncorks a whiskey bottle. He grabs a tumbler and fills it with ice.

My heart thuds harder as I glance behind me at the Pawns blocking the only escape route with their hulking builds.

Darian pours a thumb of whiskey and takes a large sip, the ice clinking as I watch him warily, feeling cornered by a vicious, masked serpent.

His throat rolls as he swallows it down. “Cat got your tongue, Cecilia?”

When I remain silent, he takes slow, calculated steps toward me. “Has that fuckable mouth no snarky comeback?”

I glance behind me again at the Pawns, but Darian tsks.

“They’re not going to help you, honey. You’ve been a very bad girl.”