Page 4 of Revenge

Nausea with a side-order of jealousy crawled up my throat. A little part of me had taken what Edward had said to heart. That they had been serious about a relationship with me and I had spoiled everything by calling the police. But that tiny flame of hope was now doused by the evidence standing before me. The boys had moved on and had only cared about covering up the fake kidnapping.

“Emilia, are you well?” asked Sergei, his thick brows drawn together.

“Sure.” I gave him my brightest smile.

The orchestra started up another piece. One I recognized from dancing lessons with the triumvirate.

“Ready for a slow waltz?” he asked.

I placed my hand in his and let him sweep me onto the dance floor. The strains of the orchestra filled the room, but my heart felt empty. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had pictured the three boys attending the ball alone. My step faltered, and I muttered an apology, focusing on Sergei’s lead, his aquamarine eyes, and his adoring smile.

“You seem distracted,” he said. “What is wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to hear? It’s a very long story.”

“This is a very long piece.”

As we danced, the sorry tale spilled from my lips, and Sergei listened with avid attention. It took about five waltzes for the story to finish, and by the time the last piece ended, he wrapped his arms around me and pressed a lingering kiss on my forehead. Whether it was out of genuine affection or out of pity, I couldn’t be sure, but I relished in the comfort. Nobody but Rita had cared how much I’d suffered at the hands of the triumvirate and their cronies, and it felt good to have spoken about the ordeal with someone outside the academy.

We drank a few cocktails and glasses of champagne, danced a little more, then Sergei led me to the edge of the stage and kissed my hand. “It’s time for my performance.”

“Are you nervous?” I glanced around at the sea of expectant faces gathered on the dance floor to watch the London debut of the son of the recently deceased composer.

He grinned. “Every performance is nerve-wracking, but I will focus on those I love.”

I offered him a smile and wished him an enjoyable performance. Andreo and the other bodyguards stood by my side. Some fixing their gazes on the stage, and others looking out for potential threats.

Sergei played one of his father’s last compositions, a piano concerto that stirred my blood. It was a fast, angry piece that reminded me of all the injustices I’d endured at the hands of those snobs, and everything I planned to do to the triumvirate when I returned to Mercia Academy. By the time I finished with Henry, Blake, and Edward, the trio’s lives would be in tatters, and they would wish they had never bullied anyone.

How many lives had they ruined with their pranks and taunts, and their incitement of others to victimize innocents? Too many, and soon, they would pay.

As Sergei transitioned to the second movement, a hand wrapped around my bicep. I glared at its owner.

Edward’s wintry, blue eyes met mine. His mahogany hair was slicked off his face, accentuating the twist of his handsome features into a scowl. His tuxedo was a dark, gunmetal blue with black, silk lapels and a matching waistcoat. “What are you doing here with that Russian?”

“What business is it of yours?” I hissed. “As far as I know, you don’t own the Royal Academy.”

Behind him, Henry and Blake pushed through the crowd to make their presence known. For once, Blake didn’t wear his usual mocking or knowing smirk. His brown eyes hardened into obsidian, and his full lips formed a thin, angry line. I clenched my teeth. Why the hell was he angry? As far as he knew, I was moving on with someone else. The boy wore a burgundy, one-button tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist and set off his beautiful, tan skin.

How I wanted to slam my fist in Blake’s face for not properly warning me never to call the police. And for the glee he had expressed when I had been locked in that basement, lonely, miserable, and confused. He had delighted in my shock and anguish when I had guessed that they, and not the stoners, had framed me for the kidnapping.

Edward’s nostrils flared, and his hand tightened around my bicep. “Come with us.”

“What for?” I snapped. We had a plan. I was supposed to return to Mercia Academy, befriend the boys, and ruin them from the inside. But at the sight of their entitled faces and their awful dates, bitter resentment crawled up the back of my throat and coated my tongue. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”

Andreo turned toward me, eyes hard. “Is this man bothering you, Emilia?”

“Yes,” I hissed. “Him and his two friends.”

Andreo turned to the five men and gave them a sharp nod. A bald-headed brute about six-and-a-half-feet tall surged forward and wrapped his meaty fist around Edward’s wrist. Edward released his grip from around my bicep, and I rubbed it for emphasis. Another equally as large man walked around and grabbed Blake by the back of the neck. His dark eyes widened, but he said nothing. Then two men each grabbed Henry around the arms.

“What are you doing?” hissed Edward. “Call off your thugs.”

“They will not trouble you again,” said Andreo.

Sergei’s bodyguards escorted the triumvirate through the crowds and out of the ballroom. I would have rushed out to watch the spectacle, but I was sure the paparazzi would capture everything I needed to see. Warm triumph made my heart swell, and I turned back to the stage to listen to the rest of the second movement. I hoped the bodyguards hurt the triumvirate as much as they’d hurt me.

Chapter 3