Page 72 of Twisting Beauty

Mist beaded on the sharp planes of his face, on his jaw, on the salt-and-pepper hair pushed loose across his forehead. There was nothing soft about him except the way he was looking at me.

He gave me a subtle nod of his chin. Come.

I glanced around to make sure no one else was watching before I approached him.

The cello hit as I reached him, deep and bassy and pulling, his scent of clove and pepper threading through the damp air and into my chest. My knees went soft for one traitorous second.

“Are you stalking me now?” I hissed, my voice low, steadier than I had any right to expect.

He didn’t smile. Just looked at me with something close to sorrow. “Maybe I just missed you.” His hand came up and his sleeve slid down, my gaze catching on a set of numbers tattooed on his inner wrist.

12081989

A birthdate?

He tucked a strand of damp hair behind my ear and a shiver moved through me before I could stop it.

I hated the way my heart clenched. Hated that part of me had missed him, too. Missed the contained world of the asylum, the strange sanctuary we’d carved in it, doctor and patient, two broken things suspended in a pretty little lie.

For one stupid, aching second, I wanted to lean into him, bury my face into his warm coat and let him take it all away, the rumors, the shame, the hollowness of living a lie. I wanted his hands, his mouth, anything that could scrape this day off my skin and pretend none of it touched me.

I jerked back instead. “What do you really want?”

His hand fell. “Liath.”

“I’m busy.”

Something in his face closed down and his voice turned cold again. “An update. You should have something we can use by now.”

The sting hit low and mean.

Of course. He hadn’t come for me. He’d come because I was useful. Stupid me.

“I’m trying,” I said, my voice cracking with frustration. “But I’m being watched. He doesn’t just leave that shite out in the open. I have to bide my time.”

Deargán stepped closer. His gaze moved over me, slow and deliberate, over the damp dark-purple wool of my dress where it clung to my arms, my waist. His thumb brushed along my shoulder, tracing it.

“Bide your time?” he murmured. “Or perhaps you like being her. Pretending he is yours.”

The words landed like a slap. I went very still. My throat closed and heat climbed my face.

Something registered in his expression, just a fraction, before it was gone. He suddenly looked tired as he ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to warn⁠—”

He froze, his gaze moving past my shoulder.

Gravel crunched behind me and I spun.

Lorcan stood behind me, arms folded, rain glittering in his dark hair, close enough that his scent hit me immediately, whiskey and woodsmoke, and a hint of leather from his jacket.

His violins rose up through my chest at the exact moment the cello was still sounding. The cello, low and gravitational, pulling deep. The violins, raw and fractured, pulling up and sideways. They clamored against each other, each fighting to be the only sound, the clash of them filling my skull until I was dizzy.

I had no idea how long he’d been standing there.

Lorcan’s gaze moved from me to Deargán. “Who’s your friend, Rua?”

Deargán’s shoulders were rigid under his coat, the tendons in his jaw standing out for just a second before his face went blank. His eyes moved over Lorcan. Whatever was happening behind that blankness, he was clenching it shut with his back teeth.

Hatred, I guessed. He was staring at the son of the man who had taken everything from him.