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’sactuallygoing 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. Butthisruffles 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 ofPride and Prejudicewaltzes 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.”
