“You must be Elodie. I’ve heard a great deal about you.” He took my hand before I could think to stop him, and blew a kiss across the back of it.
“Elodie,” Declan said, his tone more distant, yet wrapped in silk. “Meet my father, Vincent Marzouq.”
The writer of the infamous letter in Lilian’s office… He looked exactly how I imagined him. And Preston was right. Something about him made my skin itch. Maybe it was theuncomfortable smile, his honeyed tongue. Or the way he forced himself into a conversation.
“It’s so nice to finally speak with you directly,” Vincent continued. “My son mentioned the two of you spent a night together.”
I blinked. “I wouldn’t say that. We only went to?—”
“Dinner,” Declan cut in sharply, flashing a tight smile. “We had dinner.”
Right. He wasn’t supposed to be in the Devil’s Purse.
Vincent’s grin sharpened, all pearly teeth and insinuation. “He swept you off your feet, didn’t he?” He winked, and I could barely keep the grimace off my face.
“Father,” Declan hissed.
Vincent looked at his son. “You charmed her, didn’t you?” The question felt deeper than the words. Like they were talking about something that was beyond my knowledge.
Declan looked down at his shiny shoes, and for the first time since I met him, he remained silent. As if he was embarrassed about something.
Vincent’s gaze flicked between us, then he nodded slowly, as if understanding something in the silence. “I see,” he said at last. His voice wasn’t cheerful anymore, it was annoyed with slight disappointment.
I didn’t want to stick around to find out why. “Excuse me,” I said, slipping away toward the small door that led into the garden.
My legs moved on their own, but when I reached the greenhouse, I found myself walking past it and opening the small white gate instead. The stables rose out from behind a tree, the smell of hay clinging to the air. The heavy door groaned as I pushed it open.
It had been over a week since I was last here. The familiar stalls lined the stone floor, scattered with grain and straw. Acornpoked his head out at the sound, his eyes bright as he let out a loud neigh. I lifted a bucket of carrots left by the door, and was about to walk to him when darkness moved on my right and Lilith’s head emerged from the shadows.
I approached her first, holding out a fresh carrot. She eyed it, her nostrils flaring, then gently tugged it from my palm, chewing with careful elegance. I took the chance to smooth my hand over her forehead, soft, and warm. I was wondering how old she could be. How many things she must have seen. Then, leaving her behind, I walked to Acorn’s stall, who waited patiently, his ears twitching. I held up the bucket to let him choose his own sweet treat.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” The voice was low and warm. It slid down my spine, caressing the skin there.
I whirled around.
Preston was perched on the ladder to the hayloft, his shirt wrinkled, his hair a mess, and his eyes shadowed by sleeplessness. He looked even worse than he did two days ago when he escorted me back to my room. Has he even slept since then?
“You,” I breathed, hugging the bucket against my chest.
“Me,” he replied, a crooked grin curling on his lips.
There was hay stuck in his shirt and hair.
“Did you spend the night here?” I asked, unsure of what to think.
“I might have.” He stepped closer. “You care?”
I? Care? I was dumbfounded. Not because of his question. But because I did care. The realisation made my chest burn with an anxious heat. “Don’t be delusional,” I bit out after a pause. “Just because we have a common interest, doesn’t mean…”
The lie died on my lips.
He tipped his head, watching, his gaze warm. Like he was looking at me, and—he liked it.
“Are you drunk?”
The whites of his eyes were red, his gaze clouded.
“I visited the village today—yesterday.” His lips twitched upwards on the sides. “Kicked some dogs, pushed a few children off the swings…you know, the usual.” His tone was all humour, but the lie in it was loud. “Perhaps I made a brief stop atThe Grey Maiden.”
