Page 45 of Twisting Beauty

Lorcan’s eyes were on me now, something dark and violent in his gaze.

I turned away with my pulse hammering, feeling the noose starting to close in around us all.

That night, back at Lasair Manor, there was a note on my pillow.

A square of folded paper sitting in the center of the black silk, precise as a full stop.

He hadn’t bothered with a signature, but I didn’t need one to know who this was from.

Stop hesitating.

Do what you were sent to do.

My jaw tightened until it ached.

Deargán had been in this room. He was watching me.

He’d watched me lose days as I oriented myself as Rua and was now tightening the slack.

Lorcan had enough evidence from the tattoo to make a move against me. After today, he would. Soon.

If I wanted any control left at all, I had to move first.

I repressed a shiver as my heart slammed against my ribs.

I knew what I had to do next, and it terrified me. Because if I got caught, I was worse than dead.

15

LIATH

My trembling hand paused on Alistair’s bedroom door handle as I stood in the forbidden wing, exposed and vulnerable out in the empty corridor.

He only left it unlocked when he was in the house, because who in this house would dare. Which meant I couldn’t wait for one of his business trips. I had to break in now.

And I didn’t have long. Who knew when he was coming back.

Fear sat lodged in my bones. It stuck in my throat, making it hard to breathe.

I had no idea what Alistair would do if he found me here. I only knew it would be… painful. I’d probably wish for death.

For one cowardly second, I pulled my hand back from the handle. Dervla flashed through my mind, hollow-eyed and pale in that ward. I turned my palm over and looked at the thin white pact scar there. The sight of it hardened something in me. I had to do this.

I opened the door and slipped inside.

Wormwood hit me first, herby and medicinal, and the pipe organ note pressed into me, adding to my nerves. Even with the room empty, his scent soaked into everything, his presence in every surface.

His bedroom was furnished in dark wood, his bedspread pulled flat enough to bounce a coin, heavy black and gold curtains shutting out the day. On the desk, a leather notepad sat flush with the edge beside a pen aligned exactly parallel to its spine, the pages clean and fresh. Even his bookshelves were neat to the point of compulsion. Not a speck of dust anywhere.

In a dark bedroom almost devoid of color, my eyes were drawn to the large painting that hung directly opposite the bed. It was a portrait of Alistair himself, oil paints in deep grays and furious reds that radiated outward from him like heat off scorched earth. Like fire off a devil.

The artist’s painting style was so similar to Rua’s, but these brushstrokes were wilder.

Rua painted this, and he hung it where he’d see it every night.

The sight of it lodged under my ribs. I gave myself one moment to absorb it, then forced myself back to my dangerous task of snooping.

I pulled open the bedside drawers and rummaged through them, unsure exactly what I was looking for. Just knowing that somehow, I’d know when I found it.