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“Okay.”
He leaned forward and caught my face, kissing me on the forehead. “If she doesn’t want to come,” he murmured, “leave her.” Then he turned, and I watched him knife through the crowd.
With Jamie gone, I moved slowly, keeping a careful eye on the people around me, searching for pale hair and paler skin. It occurred to me: if Laurel wasn’t at the party, she might still be getting ready, planning some big entrance. She might be alone somewhere in the mansion.
With one last glance at the Lieutenant and Marquis, I slipped out of the ballroom and into the hallway I recognized, the one that led to the basement. I needed to go in the opposite direction—upstairs, where the bedrooms would be. Did Laurel have her own, or did she share with Don? Was it true they were practically married?
The promise of her drew me forward. Once more, I was Sleeping Beauty, moving by instinct, hand outstretched toward the spindle. I wondered how long it would take to find her, when every turn pushed me farther into the maze of this sprawling place, and every new wall jolted me with pieces of art so perfectly in Don’s taste they felt haunted, like he was inside them, watching. I came to a fork in the hall and chose left instead of right. Turned, and froze.
I faced an open door—a room with nothing but an enormous painting, covering the expanse of a wall. In it, a beautiful woman with long hair the color of moonlight, falling into the arms of a tall, black-cloaked figure, its hood hiding its face. Two skeletal hands snaked from the figure’s cloak, gripping the woman by the waist.
I took a staggering step forward, transfixed.
“Death and the Maiden,” said a deep, familiar voice. “It has the same effect on me.”
Don Rockwell. Standing at the end of the hall, framed by the walls like he was yet another painting, a second dark, beautiful Death.
He pulled me like a magnet, even after all this time.
My body went to war. My heart raced, but my limbs turned to stone. All I could do was stand there, drinking him in. He looked exactly like I remembered. Tall and broad-shouldered, filling every inch of his tuxedo. He radiated authority, like he always had. I felt his dark eyes travel over my body, and the weight of his gaze created a visceral sensation, like the brush of a fingertip.
I’d never really imagined…couldn’t actually believe—
You found me, the dark voice whispered.You’re home.
“Shay,” he said thickly. My name on his lips was an intimacy, shortening the space between us. “You came back.”
His gaze was locked on me, and it was intoxicating. My mouth went dry.Move, I urged myself, but I was rooted.
He strode toward me, each step luxuriously slow.Scream, I told myself.Run.
He stopped in front of me, wonder on his face. “How is it possible you’re even more beautiful? You’re like a fairy tale come to life.”
I opened my mouth, but all I could do was take him in. The face I’d visited in countless dreams, tracing with my thumb one minute, recoiling from the next. The voice that could reach inside me, stirring, then paralyzing.
He shook his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t care. I only care that you’re back.”
He cupped my face in his large, warm hand and gave me a blinding smile. The sheer magnetism of him.
“I knew you’d come back,” he murmured, drawing closer. “Knew you were still my girl.”
His girl.I remembered… Of course I did. The girl who lived for him to touch her, push her against the wall, bend her over his bed, until she staggered with the pleasure of rock bottom. With him I’d practiced throwing myself away. Experimented with releasing hold of the ego I’d once deemed so precious, guarded so protectively. It had been a kind of freedom—twisted, but true.
Don stroked his thumbs over my cheekbones, and I felt it again: the tempting pull of self-annihilation.
I shook my head, told myself to resist,but maybe that was part of the attraction. Because when Don drew my mouth to his, when he kissed me, I let him in. His tongue brushed my lips, and I was inside my body and outside it, two people.
“You taste like home,” he whispered. “Just like I remember.”
Home—that’s what I’d thought the moment I saw him. The same word from his mouth jarred me. Had it been my own thought, or was it one he’d given me years ago, repeated until I couldn’t tell the difference? Whose dark voice was in my head—the one that whispered things that made me feel irredeemable—was it mine, or his?
No, I hadn’t escaped Don. Not when I carried him inside me everywhere I went.
He leaned in to kiss me again, but I turned my head.
“Shay.” His voice was admonishing. “It’s me.”
“And who is that?” I asked. “Nico Stagiritis? The Philosopher? The man behind the governor?”
