Текст книги "Throne of the Fallen"

Автор книги: Kerri Maniscalcol

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

FOURTEEN

“METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING, I mean,” Camilla rushed to add, watching Lord Synton’s face carefully, noting the exact moment he decided against hunting Vexley down. For a minute, he’d reminded her of an angel of vengeance: all lethal grace and divine punishment, charging in to completely obliterate a foe for their wrongdoing.

Looking at him now, at the cold calm and utter control he had over himself, Camilla had no doubt Synton would be capable of murdering Vexley and not sparing another thought once the dastardly deed was done. The fact that he hadn’t done just that indicated that he’d weighed the advantages against the disadvantages and found Vexley to be safe from retribution.

For now.

She didn’t think Synton would glory in the kill, but he certainly wouldn’t mind being the one to dispatch Vexley.

Or, on second thought, as she saw his pupils constrict, perhaps he would thrill in the violence, welcome it with open arms. Which ought to make Camilla wary of him but somehow comforted her instead.

“How, exactly, does one metaphorically kill one’s father?” he asked. “Should I believe one might have also metaphorically killed one’s mother?”

Synton’s tone was cordial enough, but there was a hardness in his eyes, a stiffness in his shoulders, and an undeniable feeling that the man standing before Camilla was nothing more than a feral animal trapped in the cage of expensive suits.

This man liked the darkness, welcomed it; the shadows were where he preferred to be.

Camilla imagined painting Synton that way—his beautiful face emerging from the shadows, the lushness of his lips set against the harsh lines of a harsher expression, wielding a blazing sword dripping with the blood of his enemies.

“Miss Antonius?”

Her name jolted her out of her vision. Camilla shook her head, clearing it. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. And of course I didn’t kill my mother. She left to travel the world. End of story.”

“Enlighten me about your father, then.” He bit out the words as if each syllable gravely offended him.

She took a deep breath. “Vexley is in possession of something that belonged to my father. Something I very much want back. If he’s to be believed, it’s secured outside Waverly Green, and only he knows its precise location. Should Vexley meet a foul end, I won’t ever retrieve it. It’s an object my father treasured, so losing it… it has a great emotional attachment for me, is all.”

It wasn’t the full truth. It had begun one wintry night. Camilla recalled Pierre grabbing a coat and rushing out the door, muttering about a story Camilla’s mother had once told them, years before. This had been toward the end, when he was often caught up in his fantasies of the past, but this time had proved different. Pierre had gone missing for three days, coming home exhausted but proud, the owner of a magical key he’d claimed would change everything.

Camilla had gleaned that he’d bargained for that key on Silverthorne Lane. It was soon afterward that the secret entryways took over his world and the secret gatehouse studio was built.

He’d been a man obsessed, forgetting to eat, barely sleeping; it had been difficult to watch, to try desperately to pull him back to his life before Fleur had ruined it with her tales of shadow realms. But still, after he’d died, the key had felt important. Like it might reveal something Camilla had missed about his madness, if she herself found the right door.

Of course, now she knew she should have pawned it back at the dark market. Instead, she’d kept it secreted away, unwilling to part with it.

Sentimentality often grew fangs and bit a person in the rump.

If Camilla had sold it, Vexley never would have stolen it from her, and she’d not have one more chain wrapped around her now.

“Your father is really dead, then.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He really died a few years back.”

There was a slight softening in Synton’s features, like he understood what losing something irreplaceable meant. For a tense beat, Camilla thought he’d reach out, hold her hand, let her know she wasn’t alone.

Then he slammed any empathy down, his expression going carefully blank as he stepped back, putting distance between them. He was wholly unreadable now.

Except for his clever eyes, which seemed to indicate that his mind was rapidly sorting through puzzle pieces and riddles, figuring out his next move and whether this information changed anything.

He slowly dragged his gaze over her, a new spark entering those shrewd eyes.

“I’m hosting a masquerade ball in two nights’ time.”

Camilla drew her brows together, not immediately understanding the giant shift in conversation. “My invitation arrived earlier.”

He nodded, almost absently. “I will assist with locating the object that belonged to your father. I will also hold on to the forgery and keep Vexley on a tight leash, ensuring that he doesn’t cause any problems for either of us. If you agree to paint the Hexed Throne, I’ll return the forgery to you after it’s complete.”

He held up a hand, forestalling any argument.

“We both get something we want out of the bargain. Before you toss the offer aside, take time to really think it over, Miss Antonius. It’s a fair deal.”

It was a reasonable request, yet Camilla’s pulse roared in her ears.

She couldn’t paint that throne.

At least not without giving away one of her most closely guarded secrets.

But her choices were quickly dwindling.

“What is the true reason you want that painting?” she asked, knowing it was likely in vain. Yet if she considered giving him one of her secrets, he should return the favor.

“I told you. I collect intriguing art. Your talent is such that I’d like to own this piece.”

Synton’s expression abruptly shuttered, but she’d caught a glimpse of something desolate, something that seemed to span centuries, staring out from his emerald eyes. There had been no hint of humanity in that look, only coldness so impenetrable that she shuddered in its wake. She could easily imagine he’d lived lifetimes alone, tortured by something he’d never escaped.

“Very well,” she said, inexplicably moved. “I’ll give you an answer in two nights, at the ball.”

FIFTEEN

ENVY WAS SURPRISED that Goodfellow had been correct about the Fae.

The dark market on Silverthorne Lane was cleverly named for the creatures that sold curious wares and made cruel bargains with mortals either foolish or arrogant enough to believe they could deceive those who’d practically invented deception.

Most humans believed the Fae were incapable of lying—it was a tale they’d spun themselves, as they often crafted folklore that suited them best.

Only one myth held truth—iron did lay them low.

If mortals were half as smart and superior as they’d like to believe they were, they’d fashion their homes and prisons out of it. Envy knew for a fact that every dungeon in his brothers’ Houses of Sin was made of the material. Plenty of other lesser-known nasties roamed the realms, and iron did a pretty good job of holding them, too.

Shrewd vendors called out from the open-air stalls as he passed, trying to entice him to their tables.

“Memory stone?”

“Potion for never-ending lust?”

“Jacket to divert any foe and cheat death?”

Envy strolled along the cobbled street, glancing into each stall of questionable artifacts, hands tucked casually in his pockets. But inside, he was tense—sensing Fae magic pulsing all around, luring and tempting, like a song whose tune slowly sank into the listener’s subconscious until they hummed it without thought. It was subtle, a charge in the atmosphere, a scent that hung thick in the air like a heady mixture of spice and storm clouds, unmistakable: the Wild Court’s magic.

The Wild Court was the name given to the Unseelie kingdom, home to the dark Fae. As a species Fae were birthed into one of two courts. The Seelie—or the light court, who worshipped the sun and spring and summer—or the Unseelie court, the Fae who worshipped the moon and fall and winter.

Part of the island chain where both the Seven Circles and the Shifting Isles were located, Faerie loomed in the west, divided down the middle by an invisible boundary. The Seelie had settled in the east, where the sun shone the brightest, while the Unseelie had set up their court in the west, where the moon reigned supreme.

Of course, there were solitary Fae and exiled Fae as well, and each faced their own unique challenges. Being a member of a court was ingrained in their very beings, so parting from it willingly or unwillingly was difficult. Or so he’d been told.

Fae time moved differently even from other Underworld realms, too. A few days in the mortal realm could equal a few months in Faerie, though a few days in Faerie was only a week or two in the Seven Circles. Envy knew that personally, from a time he’d prefer not to think of. Yet, despite his ignoring the tricky Wild realms, over the years, rumors had reached the Seven Circles of discord in the Unseelie court.

It seemed that decades before, Prim Róis, the Unseelie Queen—legendary for her wicked games—had abdicated her throne for a time, delighting in the chaos her absence wreaked.

Mostly, she did it to needle the king. She was Discord, he was Chaos. Both as inconstant and changing as the moon they worshipped. Together they had ruled over the Unseelie, culling a court of nightmarish Fae for several millennia, twisted and gnarled and full of rot. The Unseelie kingdom itself had been broken into the jagged points of a star—with Prim Róis and Lennox ruling at the top and their wicked heirs overseeing the remaining four courts. Envy knew firsthand that the Unseelie were similar to succubi, feeding on emotions, most associated with passion. He knew, too, that they enjoyed toying with humans.

So Envy and his brothers had kept a close eye on them, especially once the witches and vampires began circling Faerie like sharks, drawn to the scent of spilled blood. Malice Isle—home to the vampire court—was a mere stone’s throw from the southeastern shore of the Seven Circles, granting them easy sailing to Faerie once they traveled west past the Shifting Isles.

Luckily, the Seelie at least had shown some sense, turning their attention to their own matters, unconcerned with their wicked brethren.

Envy drew himself from his dark thoughts, glancing around to be sure none of these strange, lone Fae might have deciphered where they’d gone.

Luckily, a stall on his left drew his attention. Paintbrushes made of gemstones glittered in the moonlight. One was carved from a single flawless emerald. Beautiful.

Envy plucked it up, feeling for any trace of magic or trickery, intrigued when all was as mundane as it appeared.

“Bag this up.”

Copper eyes flashed. Sharp teeth gleamed.

“A fine choice, Your Highness.”

His true title was nothing but a mere hiss on the wind, yet several pairs of ancient eyes turned to him. Before the Fae could spill any other secret, Envy’s dagger was at the Unseelie’s throat, the tip digging deep enough to draw its sparkling blood.

Envy’s blade glowed, pleased with the offering.

“Tell you what. Give me information and I may be persuaded to keep your head attached to your body. Lie and I’ll piss on your corpse’s pyre tonight. Deal?”

A demon blade was indiscriminate as to who or what it killed. No immortal could withstand a strike. Except for his brothers.

The Fae seethed but inclined its head. Wise enough to ensure that it lived to see another wretched day.

“Have you, or has anyone you know, sold information to a man called Pierre Antonius? Give details.”

“Yes. He wished to know of a way to travel realms.”

“How long ago?”

“Two years.”

“And?” Envy pressed. “What else?”

“We told him of realm lines.”

Just as Envy had suspected.

“Did your king give him a key?”

“I no longer belong to any king or queen. What they do or do not give doesn’t concern me.”

An exiled Fae, then, more volatile than a solitary Fae. Exiled Fae were either furious at being without a court, or happy to be free. This one seemed to lean toward the former.

“Political bullshit aside, answer the question. Did he have a key?”

“Yes.”

And Envy would wager that that was the object Camilla wanted to get back. The one she’d claimed held sentimental value. Given the secret tunnel and the passageways shown in Pierre’s art, Envy understood why she’d want it back, even if she wasn’t fully aware of what it did. That Vexley had it indicated he was more cunning than Envy would have believed. And almost certainly guaranteed he was a player.

“Why did he want to travel realms?”

“Same as all others. To live among his betters. To amuse us until we grow bored.”

Which was an arrogant way of saying the Fae didn’t know. Pierre could have been searching for a way into Faerie, or he could have been searching for shifters.

“Have you, or has anyone you know, bargained with a mortal named Vexley? If so, be specific as to what he wanted.”

“Yes. He wanted information. About a key.”

Envy’s grip tightened on his dagger.

“The same key?”

“I would imagine so. Not many portal keys to be found these days.”

It took every ounce of will he possessed not to go back on his word and stab the Fae.

“Did he secure information about this key?”

If so, then the odds of safely locating and retrieving the key were growing slimmer. Envy knew that if Vexley had had any inkling of what the key was worth, he’d have sold it to the highest bidder, easily lying about returning it to Camilla.

An argument broke out the moment before the Fae answered him, stealing Envy’s attention long enough for the Unseelie to vanish beneath his grasp.

Cursing, he glared at the mortal fighting with the proprietor two stalls down, feeling a little less murderous when he saw who was making all the ruckus.

Lord Edwards. Katherine’s husband.

Curious indeed.

Envy quickly considered all possibilities: Edwards could be another player. Or maybe he was one of the many who’d become addicted to Unseelie magic.

Envy could walk over, drag the man away from the fight, or he could watch from the shadows, see what other secrets there were to be gleaned.

Envy wasn’t the helping sort.

He called upon his own magic, cloaking himself in shadow before drifting closer to the furious lord.

“I’ll have you know that Peter did not take to the tonic as promised.”

The Fae dealer gave the mortal a blank look.

“The rooster, for God’s sake,” Edwards said between clenched teeth. “You promised it would sire golden-egged riches. I demand my money back.”

Envy briefly closed his eyes. Was Edwards really such a fool? Or was it possible he needed the rooster for his clue? Odd, but the game master did have a wicked sense of humor.

Though maybe Edwards was like any other mortal, wanting an easy way to secure more wealth.

Bored and disappointed, Envy continued down Silverthorne Lane, scanning the thinning crowd, trying to sort out the mystery of Camilla’s father and his fascination with other realms. What had lured him—Faerie or shifters?

Or was Pierre’s fascination simply that annoying human need for adventure?

Envy suddenly wanted to know more about Camilla’s absent mother; she might very well hold the answers he needed. Camilla had been quick to end the discussion when he’d asked about her, and now he very much wanted to know why.

SIXTEEN

CAMILLA’S MAID CINCHED her stays tight enough to elicit a wince, then helped her into the most magnificent garment she’d ever seen, let alone owned before going to fetch her slippers.

After her father died, she’d used all her earnings from the gallery to keep the staff on. The gallery had come a long way already, earning a nice income for her, but she couldn’t replace her entire wardrobe each season like she used to.

It was either pretty dresses and half the staff, or half the dresses and supporting those she’d known her whole life. The choice was easy.

The gown she wore now was beyond anything she’d dreamed of owning again. Indeed, it was a work of art—lavish, decadent, and undeniably stunning. Camilla felt like a princess in it, not just because the gown must have cost a small fortune, but because wearing it made her feel powerful. It had been a long while since she’d truly felt that.

She twisted one way, then the other in front of her full-length mirror, admiring the flow of the material.

The skirts were ethereal layers of fluffy white tulle, with silver sparkles scattered like glittering stars across the fabric. The bodice was made of diamonds encrusted with silver beads and downy white feathers. She looked like a moon goddess, ethereal, tempting, and completely out of any mortal’s reach.

The gown had mysteriously shown up two hours before Synton’s ball, along with a matching silver filigree mask. No note accompanied the package, but a beautiful new paintbrush was nestled on top of the dress.

Though calling it a paintbrush hardly did it justice—the handle was a solid piece of carved emerald, the exact shade of Synton’s eyes, leaving no room for Camilla to mistake where the gifts had originated.

Surprisingly enough, though made from a gemstone, the brush wasn’t heavy or hard to handle—it fit her palm perfectly, making her long for a few moments to sit at an easel.

Camilla often wondered if paint ran through her veins instead of blood. When she created, it was as if she made new realms, fantastical and beautiful and exactly where she wished she could escape to. With her art, somehow she was connected to the universe far beyond her small gallery. She could live a thousand and one lives, each more magical than the last.

Synton had chosen his temptation well.

The paintbrush was a cunning gift. It made Camilla seriously consider painting the Hexed Throne for him, consequences be damned.

She laid the paintbrush back on the crushed velvet, emotions churning. She needed to give him an answer about his proposed deal tonight.

She wished this decision didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. She recalled the night before her father had died—he’d tried to draw her near, his arms shaking with the effort.

“Darkness… will… not… win.”

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, tears stinging her eyes. Had he known? She remembered thinking, had he always known?

“You… are… good, sweet girl. Never… doubt.”

It was the last thing he’d ever said to her. And Pierre had made clear throughout the years how he felt about hexed objects. How dangerous they were, to be avoided at all costs.

Mixed with Camilla’s rare… talent… should she paint the Hexed Throne it might very well appear. Stories varied on what it did—from granting everlasting power and immortality to cursing all other rulers and even destroying immortals—but Camilla wasn’t sure any variation would be good.

What did Synton want with the painting of the throne?

He’d claimed he wanted it only for his personal gallery, but Camilla didn’t need his uncanny ability to detect a lie to know he wasn’t being truthful.

Could she really risk giving someone like Synton access to an object with the power to do unspeakably dark things? Her father had taught her repeatedly that power corrupted even the purest soul. Synton didn’t strike her as having a pure soul to begin with.

If Camilla painted the Hexed Throne, she would be responsible for whatever happened after. Maybe Synton wouldn’t abuse it, but it could be stolen by someone worse.

A gentle knock brought her attention to the here and now.

“Come in.”

Her maid dropped a polite curtsy then helped Camilla into her slippers.

“The Lord and Lady Edwards have arrived.”

Camilla glanced at her reflection one last time, then donned her mask.

One way or another, the woman who returned to this home would be changed. For better or worse.

The way her luck had been going didn’t inspire confidence.

“Please, Father. Help.” Camilla tried to summon a memory of her father, seeking his reassuring voice, but whatever being heard her plea in the Great Beyond laughed darkly, the chilling echo reverberating through her bones.

Camilla hurried from her bedchamber, hoping that haunting laugh wasn’t a sign of worse things to come.

SEVENTEEN

HEMLOCK HALL WAS no House of Envy, but the prince of that circle was pleased enough with the restoration. And the turnout. Regardless of the ache growing in the pit of his stomach, or the way his attention kept turning to the clock. Much would be decided by the end of the night. He’d either be one step closer to victory, or he’d damn his people forever.

The fate of Envy’s court depended on one stubborn mortal.

The irony was poetic, he supposed. Lennox had had decades to plan this game, and had probably chosen Camilla because of that very trait, knowing she’d not make it easy for any of them.

Still, Envy hadn’t expected to come this close to losing so soon.

He focused on his breathing, on the role he needed to play of enigmatic lord. Inside, he churned like a violent sea. He wanted to pace the upper balcony, strum his fingers along the banister, release some of his pent-up energy.

Maybe he just needed to find a willing partner and fuck his way to serenity. Or better, restore some power by stoking someone’s envy.

That shouldn’t be too hard. He looked out at the first guests, arriving with great excitement at his glittering estate. He’d restored the circular drive, adding a fountain that boasted a statue of a winged beast, the water colored a sparkling pale green.

Every chamber, every inch of the grounds, had been designed to dazzle and to provoke his sin.

Nearly everyone in Waverly Green’s mortal high society had accepted his invitation, well over a hundred nobles drawn to the manor house and its mysterious allure, if only to boast about it later. Envy had also made sure to withhold certain invitations. There was nothing to be envied about an event that everyone could attend.

He watched as a dozen or so couples swarmed into the ballroom, dressed in gowns and suits of the finest materials, their masks gleaming in the candlelight. Women circled the room, talking excitedly, while the men swiped drinks from passing trays.

Envy moved along the balcony overlooking the grand hall, listening in. Even wearing deep gold masks, he recognized the Lords Walters and Harrington from Vexley’s party, and the man—Lord Garrey—who’d snuck off with Widow Janelle.

Lord Garrey was interesting. Apparently, he’d had a string of bad luck over the last few years, despite his family’s impeccable standing. His youngest sister and then a woman he’d courted had gone missing, never to be seen again. Envy’s spies had also uncovered his connection to Lord Edwards, a boyhood friend. Lord Garrey, too, had been seen frequenting Silverthorne Lane.

Knowing all this, Envy suspected that Lord Garrey was another player. Fae liked to take mortal women, lure them into Faerie. It would be something worth playing for—a chance to win one back.

Envy’s hunch grew as the man excused himself to slowly wander around the edge of the ballroom, his attention sliding over each painting and sculpture. Envy had purposefully included art depicting Unseelie. He’d wanted to see who would notice. And like clockwork, that was where Lord Garrey paused now. The Wild Court.

Envy signaled to Alexei, who’d been waiting on the main floor, indicating that he should watch the mortal in question. His second nodded, then disappeared into the shadows.

Envy returned his attention to Walters and Harrington. Two buffoons, from what he’d observed, not likely players, unless Lennox was simply toying with Envy.

Whispers from that group of lords reached his ears, their voices tinged with jealousy. Apparently, Envy’s invitations had done what he’d hoped they would. He’d stamped them with a two-headed wolf, the symbol of his House of Sin. And they had been printed on the finest card stock, the green so deep it was almost black, with silver ink that glimmered.

Gifts had also been sent, each tailored to the guests. Brandy, cigars, rare books—Envy’s spies had been gathering careful intelligence for him. He’d made it nearly impossible for those invited to refuse. Harrington and Walters practically seethed from the audacity, the insult of the packaging being so wretchedly, wonderfully unique.

Camilla’s gift, however, had been different. Envy had shopped for everything himself. And he’d given her far more than a simple party favor. Camilla might not be royalty, but he’d wanted to see her look like a princess tonight, unmatched in dignity, in grace. In part because her beauty called for it, and in part to show Vexley he’d never stood a chance.

Sparks of envy already flitted through the ballroom air, feeding his sin, and magnified by the seductive oils he’d placed throughout to stoke every human sense. Vanilla, ginger, jasmine, musk—each scent evoked a different feeling, promised a new delight.

Knowing he had to store up as much power as possible for the game, Envy had played into the darkness of sin through his chosen décor, too. Dark wooden tables and chairs, a black crystal chandelier. Sconces and candelabras made of iron, fitted with ebony beeswax tapers.

Below him, the ballroom floor gleamed like a meadow at night, the blackish-green marble buffed to clearly reflect the masked faces of the dancers gliding across it.

At his nod, his hired quartet began to play, and gowns in every hue unfurled like flower petals as they twirled across the large expanse of floor, each reflecting its own beautiful midnight blossom within the marble.

Envy’s vision had come together exquisitely.

The mortals sensed the true grandeur, sipping their drinks, talking in little groups, growing bolder as the night grew later because of the masks they wore. Envy had guessed they’d allow themselves to indulge in sin a bit more if they had a sense of anonymity.

Although, thus far, the most scandalous thing he’d witnessed was men stealing more dances than society normally permitted.

He wondered what Camilla would be like, whether her mask would make her bold. Envy waited for a splash of silver to cut through the rainbow of colors swirling below, thinking of her desire in the tunnel several nights before. It had been so intense, so heady, it had nearly made Envy lose sight of his goal.

Envy pictured her silver hair, then thought about winding it slowly around his fist, angling her face up to his. Would she fight such a leash, or welcome it? In either case, he’d cover her mouth with his until she forgot her anger, forgot she’d ever wished to deny him what he wanted most. He could imagine her moans as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, possessing her as she’d wanted, up against that wall.

He’d been tempted by her then and was frustrated to realize he still was. Maybe Envy needed to get her into his bed, bargain aside, so she could remove herself from his head shortly after.

One night and then he’d finally be satisfied.

“Careful, brother.”

Lust sidled up beside him, a tumbler of Dark and Sinful dangling from his fingertips.

“Some might confuse that expression for longing.”

Envy remembered the role he needed to play. He was a Prince of Hell, debauched, insolent. Looking for the sort of fun to inspire his sin.

He wasn’t a desperate male on the verge of losing everything.

“They would be correct,” Envy said. “I long for the next clue.”

Lust snorted.

“Stubborn prick.”

“You sound like Pride now. Perhaps you ought to do as Sloth has suggested—branch out and be more creative.”

“Since you are so unbothered, I’ll happily bend Camilla over and shove my cock deep—”

Lust made a garbled sound.

Envy had exploded before he could think through his actions. Still, he squeezed his brother’s throat tighter, his expression void of humor.

“Don’t.”

“Why? It’s lust, not love. No need to act like our love-drunk big brother. Unless, of course, this game is different from the others.” Lust’s gaze sharpened; he’d been purposefully provoking Envy. “There isn’t anything you’d like to confess, is there?”

A loud roaring sounded in Envy’s head. Lust hid his cunning behind his jovial persona, but his instincts were nearly unmatched by any of their other brothers.

“Until she’s mine,” Envy said smoothly, “you know how I feel about sharing.”

It was normally true. Everyone knew how territorial he could be.

“Good. For a moment it looked like you were thinking of tearing my throat out.”

Lust flashed him a wolfish grin before his gaze darted behind Envy.

Envy dropped his hand and flexed it, poised to strike again.

His brother tossed an arm around his shoulders, turning him to face the dance floor.

“If you won’t take the artist to bed, someone else will.”

There she was—a shimmering blade cutting through the darkness. His princess of starlight, if only for one evening. The woman who held him and his court in her burning, deadly grasp.

“Gods fucking damn,” Lust muttered beside him, whistling softly. “That woman.”

Envy barely noticed Lady Katherine and Lord Edwards standing beside her, mere shadows in masks of blue and gray. Between them, Camilla held her head high, her otherworldly hair pulled back from her mask, curled and cascading down her bare shoulders.

His attention slid over her collarbones, admiring the dip in the gown that hinted at her curves but didn’t reveal much. It was meant to tease, to seduce, and Miss Camilla Antonius was enchanting the whole room. At Vexley’s party she’d been shy, wanting to fade into the shadows, escape notice.

With her shining silver mask, she owned every ounce of attention that came her way now. She was a star, and she refused to dull her light for any mere mortal.

Which was fitting, since she wasn’t meant for a mortal man tonight.

She was meant for Envy.

And after she agreed to paint the Hexed Throne, because he had to believe she would, he was going to enjoy every second of their time together. Worshipping her body until the sunlight streamed in through the windows and their night of passion ended.

Envy was ready to make his own grand entrance when he saw something that made his sin ignite.

Vexley had arrived as well and was already whisking Camilla onto the dance floor. His hand had settled far too low on her hip for Envy’s liking.

Jealousy, ice-cold and ancient, frosted the railing where Envy stood.