“And that’s the most important thing. Westlyn, your father has workedveryhard to build this alliance.”
I nod, as if the simple act of agreeing with her can soothe my fraying nerves.
It doesn’t.
“It’s just… What if the cards are trying to tell me something?” I press. “I’ve always associated the Moon card with deception. A warning to dig a little deeper, you know?”
At my words, the storm clouds shift, briefly revealing the moon. It shines through the stained glass, illuminating the narthex in a jewel-toned rainbow.
It feels like another warning.
“Oh, Westlyn.” Eloise tugs on one of my braids and smiles, a gesture so motherly it makes my heart soar with renewed hope, despite the alarms blaring inside it. “You can’t pin your entire future—thisfamily’sfuture—on one little Tarot card.”
“No?” I wait for her to tell me it’s just my subconscious projecting my fears about marrying a total stranger.
I wait for her to tell me I’ll wake up in Hunter’s bed tomorrow, eager to start my new life as the wife of a prominent shadowmancer.
I wait for her to tell me my father loves me and wants what’s best for me, and no Tarot card could ever change any of that.
But all too soon, the clouds scud back over the moon, and Eloise’s smile turns to ice, her grip on my hair tightening. With a sneer that chills me to the marrow, she says, “Your Tarot interpretations are as trite and meaningless as your whining. You’re not even a real witch—it’s a damn miracle we found a mage family willing to take you in at all.”
“But… but I—”
“This ispreciselywhy I insisted your father steer clear of you tonight. Your childish antics would only upset him, and goddess knows he’s got enough to deal with.”
Shame burns my cheeks. “I’m... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“This wedding ishappening, Westlyn. This alliance is happening. Maybe Hunter isn’t your first choice in husbands, but honestly…” A cold laugh escapes as she rakes her gaze down my body. “Wereyouyour father’s first choice in daughters? A witch with no power? A witch who killed her own mother for the privilege of being born?”
My nerves are on fire, everything inside me desperate to flee. To smash the flowers into her smug face, bolt out the door, and let the storm wash me away. But Eloise’s words are too sharp, too precise. Every one of them strikes home, stealing my voice and paralyzing me where I stand.
“Like it or not, this marriage is the sacrifice you must make for your family—for the man who sacrificed his entirelifejust to take care of you. Anyone else in his position would’ve abandoned you to the wolves without a second thought. So no, Westlyn, you will not be reading Tarot cards or complaining of allergies or coming up with any other excuses to delay the inevitable.”
I lower my eyes, unable to bear the weight of her icy glare.
“You’ve got five minutes to pull yourself together,” she hisses. “Theminuteyou hear the organ, you will march into the cathedral with your head held high, your smile bright, and your ungrateful attitude checked at the door. If you can’t manage that simple task after all we’ve done for you, the onlydeeper diggingyou’ll need to worry about tonight is your grave.”
Chapter Six
AUGUSTINE
Mastering the fine art of blackmail really just comes down to acknowledging two fundamental laws.
Law number one? Women are the guardians of the world’s secrets. They’ve always got a few juicy little tidbits swimming around on the surface, just waiting for an opportunity to bubble out. Probe a bit deeper, though, and you’ll find the whole cache. We’re talking towering, rodent-infested, hoarders-level collections of scandals, confessions, and gossip so salacious it would put the tabloids to shame.
And here’s the second law. The keys to the castle, if you will. To the whole fucking treasury.
The only thing standing between all those precious secrets and the man whose mission it is to obtain them… is a thoroughly good dicking.
Hell, it doesn’t even have to begood. Doesn’t even have to progress beyond shameless flirting, if you know what you’re doing. As long as she’s into you and believes she’s got a shot at warming your bed? Let the oversharing commence.
Call me a sexist prick if you must—it’s a badge I’ll wear proudly, and one I’ll continue to earn.
Yes, I’m justthatgood at what I do.
“Seventy?” I press a hand to my chest, mouth dropping in mock indignation. “I refuse to believe you’re a day over forty, Mrs. Deveroux.”
“That’sMs.Deveroux, young man. Are all fae so brazen? And that dimple… goodness!” The old hag flashes a lipstick-smudged grin and sidles closer to me on the pew, pressing against me from knee to hip. Resting a bony hand on my thigh—highon my thigh—she coos, “I didn’t realize the Archmage associated with such shameless flirts.”
