“I suppose I better go, before she sends a summons written in blood and drenched in Chanel No. 5,” I muttered, rising from my chair. I collected the stack of papers and slid them under an arm.
Thorne straightened, though one could tell she still favored her right side. “Want backup?”
I stared at the werewolf, warmed by her offer. Who would have thought I’d have such a spitfire for backup?
“No, but thank you,” I said. “My mother would likely keel over from a heart attack if you were to walk into our house.” Which almost made it worth the trouble.
We walked out together, side by side through the main lounge. It was early yet, too early for the bar to hum with life, and only a few staff floated about, preparing for the night.
At the doors, Thorne nudged me with her elbow. “When you find Izzy, tell her I’m mad at her.”
When. Not if. She didn’t know how much that comforted me.
“When I find her, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Damn right I will,” Thorne said. She peeled off in the opposite direction, walking toward her vehicle.
I climbed into my own and gave my driver my destination. While he cruised through the streets, I handled the paperwork, happy to tick something off my to-do list. I didn’t look up until we arrived at the estate.
Setting the stack of papers aside, I exited the car and made my way up the drive. The doors opened immediately, compliments of Henrik, of course.
“Good evening, sir. Your mother awaits you in the conservatory.”
I greeted him, then followed the familiar path through the estate’s sweeping corridors, my gaze and mood distant. I truly didn’t want to be here, discussing Isadora with my mother.
Bracing myself, I sighed, then pushed open the conservatory doors and entered.
The room blazed with sconce light, and in the center, surrounded by marble floors and ivy-covered walls, was my mother. She sat in a high-backed chair like a queen surveying her realm, dressed in a winter white gown that sparkled whenever she moved.
“Ah, Lucien,” she said without looking up. “How nice to finally see you, dear.”
Yes, yes. I’m a horrible son.
When she did finally look up, her eyes widened. “Good heavens. Couldn’t you have at least tried to look the part?”
I glanced down at my rumpled shirt, the top two buttons at the collar undone. The cuffs hung loose at my wrists, and I hadn’t bothered to fasten my jacket, let alone steam it. I looked like someone who’d slept in his clothes—which, to be fair, I had.
I raked a hand through my hair, not bothering to smooth it out after. “If you’re here to scold me on my wardrobe, I can leave.”
My mother seemed stunned by my response. She rose from her seat, her gown shimmering with every movement. “I didn’t summon you here to discuss your recent descent into bohemian mourning chic, no.” She drifted across the room and poured herself a fresh glass of bloodwine. “But I assume you know why I did call.”
“Isadora.”
My mother took a sip and nodded. “You did as I asked. You ran her out of town. I just wanted to express my thanks.”
Already tiring of this conversation, I said, “I didn’t run her out of town. She left on her own.”
“Yes, well, however you want to word it, dear. The point is: you got the job done.”
I didn’t respond. Not at first. I simply stared at her, willing myself to stay composed.
“I didn’t run her off,” I said at last, my voice like ice. “She left. Because she’s been through hell and needed some space. And I hope to hell she comes back.”
Seraphina stilled, her fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her glass. “Excuse me?”
I met her gaze head-on. “You heard me.”
She set the glass down with careful precision.
