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“Doesn’t matter,” Ezra muttered, slumping back and throwing an arm over his eyes. “None of it matters.”
Except it did and Ezra knew that. Attending the Masquerade was the very last thing I wanted to do and that meant I had to be there. Just like he did.
“It would be better if he went back to Braxton Harbor,” Ezra complained.
“Probably.” I didn’t disagree with that assessment. “Undoubtedly, the king wants him here.”
“His fucking son,” Ezra slurred, the anger in his voice submerging beneath the complaint. “Why did he have to be his fucking kid?”
Not an answer I had readily available. Emersyn was his biological daughter. Hardigan his biological son. The whole situation would almost be hilarious if it weren’t so damn frustrating.
“Well, nothing with him has ever been easy.” A reminder Ezra shouldn’t need. His grunt said as much. I spared a look at him. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“No.” Succinct.
For now, we just had to accept that Hardigan was in the equation. He would kill to protect Lainey. That made him useful. We had to make use of it for as long as we could. Then again… maybe his presence was why King hadn’t come after me yet.
I’d been ready for that assault for weeks, but so far, he’d ignored my existence. Considering he’d been the one to order my death, one would think he’d find my life an offense.
Still, here we were.
“You should cultivate a better relationship with him.” I forced the words out. “As aggravating as we find him, he still has a part to play. King wants his son in his life… we can use that.” I shouldn’t have to remind him and yet, here we were.
A soft snore echoed through the room and I glanced over my shoulder. Ezra’s mouth was open and his face had gone slack. His arm still blocked his eyes but he was asleep.
Passed out.
Picking up his feet, I straightened him on the sofa before I dumped a blanket on him. Leaving him to sleep it off, I headed back to my room.
I didn’t even make it to the bed before my phone buzzed.
Brixton’s name appeared on the screen.
Waldemar wants to see you. Breakfast. Seven.
An address followed.
Fuck.
So much for sleep.
ChapterEight
LAINEY
Grandfather was late, so I headed for the bar and ordered a drink while waiting for him there, rather than at the table. Technically, he wasn’tlate-late. No, his meeting withLe Strärkehad run over, so he rescheduled our dinner—I checked the message—ten minutes prior to my arrival. Leopold Benedict didn’t suffer fools, tardiness, or miscommunication.
I’d already been in the car, so I’d just continued to Céleste. We dined here at least three times a year, it was one of his favorites. Pierre, the maître d', knew us well and never batted an eye if we had to reschedule a table. He was there the day my grandfather took me out for my fifth birthday and had been the one to seat us for my sixteenth. With my twenty-first around the corner, no doubt existed within me that he would be opening the champagne for that celebratory drink.
For now, though, he merely snapped his fingers and a wine selection was delivered to the table I’d taken in the lounge. “Thank you, Pierre.”
“I will have canapés and cheese tarts brought over.” The fact a waiter was already moving to fill the order spoke to how well Pierre ran the restaurant. He expressed a wish, they fulfilled it. “Mr. Benedict expressed some concern that his hosts would seek to delay their meeting once more and he didn’t want you to go hungry while you waited.”
I didn’t laugh, because that absolutely sounded like my grandfather. That he’d already had to reschedule had probably vexed him. If they lingered and impeded him once more, he would be cross. That would hamper our meal and I would likely be hungry.
“That sounds delightful,” I said, keeping my smile easy. “Any chance Chef might sneak some raspberries onto my tarts?”
Pierre appeared to consider it. “I shall discuss it with him. I might be able to persuade him.”
