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Demyen manages a smile and tilts his head in a slight shrug. “Seemed like a good idea for a weekend. Get away for a little bit, take a break from parental duties.” He brightens his smile a bit more and focuses on Dad. “You have such a wonderful granddaughter.”
He may be feeling tense, but he’s also ready for a fight. Those words might as well be his fists. Martin sputters with rage while Dad tries to keep the peace with a calming hand to his partner’s shoulder and a politically placating smile to Demyen.
“That she is,” Dad agrees.
As if he would fucking know—he’s barely given her the time of day, let alone spent enough of it to get to know her.
Tears threaten to sting my eyes. I’m realizing right now, at the worst possible moment, that Demyen has spent more time and actual care with Willow than her father and grandfathercombined.
And yet here we are. Pretending like it hasn’t all gone to shit.
Dad skims my appearance and frowns. “Really, Clara, is that dress appropriate?”
“It’s as appropriate as your attendance here, detectives,” Demyen quips. He manages a tight smile, grabs another champagne flute that he knocks back like a shot, and pulls me away from the increasingly uncomfortable conversation.
“Thank you,” I mutter to him once we’re well out of earshot.
“Fucking idiots,” is his only reply.
This does seem like a strange event for either of them to be attending. Dad’s never been much for social events—he’d onlyever go to dinners if he was ordered to by superiors or it benefitted his career with LVPD.
And Martin? Please. I’m shocked he owns anything other than the standard-issue detective suit he’s been struggling to fit into recently. My guess is, he’s currently wearing a rental.
Which further begs the question:Why?
“What are they doing here?” I ask Demyen, careful to keep my voice lower than a whisper.
He shakes his head, not once looking away from the crowd. “Leave it alone, Clara.”
I’d argue with him if it weren’t for the clear warning in his tone. It’s not something he’s throwing at me just for shits and giggles—he’s really warning me to mind my own business.
And again, that grip around my waist grows a bit tighter. Almost as if he’s afraid if he loosens, he’ll lose me in the crowd.
Something is definitely wrong.
We wander through the ballroom for a while longer, leaving the pleasantries and introductions to Demyen while I smile and laugh and compliment our way through the crowd. One man reaches out to touch the ends of my hair and says something about “excellent stock,” to which Demyen responds by easing me away and shooting him a look. Not a glare, but a warning.
“Ah, is she yours?” the man asks, nonplussed.
“Exclusively.” Demyen keeps himself calm, but again—I hear that warning in his voice.
And again, my stupid fucking heart that will never learn skips a beat and smiles up at him, hopeful.
“Well, do let me know if you’re ever in the market.” The man winks at me even though he’s addressing Demyen. “Such an exquisite beauty. She’ll make you a very wealthy man.”
I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m getting a very bad vibe from him. And it seems like Demyen does, too, because his smile is tight and his nod even tighter. When he pulls me away, he practically carries me by my arms.
“This was a bad fucking idea,” he mutters to himself. Once we’re away from the strange gentleman and his demure entourage, Demyen looks at me. “We need to leave. Now.”
“But we just got here.” Not that I’m arguing the notion; I’m more than happy to leave this strange gathering and go back to my windowless room next to Willow. I just can’t put my finger on what’s going on. Why this feels sowrong.
Or why Demyen is acting like coming to this party was the worst idea he’s ever had.
“Don’t argue with me.” He plasters on his best smile but grumbles through gritted teeth while simultaneously ushering me to the far end of the ballroom.
“I’m not?—”
“Mr. Zakrevsky.”
