by Bec McMaster
Cleo sucked in a sharp breath, and jerked her hand to her chest. The second he stopped touching her, she felt like she could think again, and her cheeks heated. "That man is my husband. And you are not he."
"No, I'm not." His expression turned dangerous. "For if I were your husband, you would have known my touch, and you would crave no other. And I would never allow such a rare bloom to wander so freely... where others might pluck it."
"Who are you?" she demanded, though she had a certain suspicion she knew.
Again she was the recipient of a hot-eyed look. "If you want my name, sweet dove, then you must win it."
"And how would I win it?"
His thumb stroked over the back of her gloved hand. "A kiss, perhaps."
Despite everything, the slow stroke of his thumb sent tremors through her. "Is your name worth so much?" she asked lightly, a little uncertain how to handle him.
Devilishly handsome strangers did not go around offering to seduce her. Or at least, they hadn't so far, in her limited experience.
"Shall you find out?" he teased.
"No kiss," Cleo insisted, though she didn't tug her hand away. "Besides, I think I do know your name, Mr... Gray."
His eyes flashed pure heat, but his smile widened. "And now I am at a loss, for I don't know yours."
Cleo smiled a very dangerous smile. "What price would you pay for it?"
The sleepy, seductive mask fell away, replaced by a look of sudden interest. "Is your name worth so much?"
Her own words, thrown back at her. "The intrigue is in the mystery, Mr. Gray. I guess you shall have to find something worthy of my attention if you wish to find out."
"Not a kiss," he mused. "A dance then?"
Cleo's eyes narrowed, as she stared down at Malachi Gray's gently tugging fingers as he sought to draw her further into the crowd. Her heart yearned for Sebastian, as did her body, but she couldn't deny the treacherous little voice that whispered in the back of her mind: Sebastian had never asked her to dance.
Never flirted.
Never tried to kiss her, beyond that one disastrous time she'd tried to press her affections upon him.
She was a wife in name only.
A young woman who'd been locked away at her father's estate for far too long, her only introductions to other people being the strictly controlled meetings her father had forced upon her, where she was to supply Visions for a price.
He’s dangerous..., Remington's voice whispered in her memories.
But they needed the Wand from him, and despite his intoxicating influence, she was certain she could handle him.
All she had to do was keep her head.
"I will grant you a dance. And if you're competent as a partner, then I might present you with my name when we finish."
"An excellent bargain." That thumb stroked across the fleshy pad of her palm. "Though I'm rather more inclined to win it."
Cleo smiled. She felt a little more clearheaded now. The press of his magic whispered against her skin, but she no longer invited it in.
Music swelled, as if at his silent command. Cleo hesitantly rested a hand on his shoulder, glancing up. "I'm told you host frequent parties, Mr. Gray."
"Please, call me Malachi."
"That wouldn't be proper."
His smiled flashed again. "What a terrible shame such impropriety would be. Imagine what my poor scandalized guests would think."
Another flare of fire belched into the air nearby, and a woman laughed raucously as a man swung her into the sky. "You have a point... Malachi."
To be in his arms was like floating on a cloud. The man danced divinely, and it felt as though she barely had to move, and he was twirling her. He kept the distance between them proper, but every touch of his gloved hands made her flush, and every heated look he sent her told a thousand naughty stories.
And yet... it felt wrong.
Almost like she'd had too much champagne, and her senses were dulled. Lust hung like a cloud in the air, like the sweet-smelling smoke of a hookah. She was drowning in the drugging kiss of it, and yet it felt vaguely distant.
It was nothing like the moment when her husband had unlaced her wedding gown for her. There'd been anticipation then, desire, nervousness, and a desperate sort of longing. This was merely skin deep.
Shallow. It could not penetrate her heart.
"I don't recall inviting you," he whispered, his breath caressing her bare neck as he turned her in his arms. "Or your friends."
Cleo twirled under his arm as he spun her, again and again, until she felt dizzy and breathless, and flushed with a heat that made her feel distinctly boneless. "Do you invite all of your guests personally?"
His smile seemed perfectly edged, as if it were merely a mask, and she realized he was watching her a little too closely. His game of seduction was precisely that. A game. And one he played with a certain sort of detachment.
"You're bored," she said, and wasn't certain if Premonition urged her to say it, or mere whim. "Bored of all the parties and the games. They satisfy some part of you, but they don't quite offer true fulfillment."
His green eyes sharpened. "What is true fulfillment?"
"Connection," she whispered. "One soul finding another in the dark, and realizing it's the other half of theirs."
"And have you found your other half?" he snapped, slowing just enough that another pair of dancers staggered into them.
A fierce glare cleared the space around them. The shiver of lust on her skin felt like it was evaporating.
"I'd hoped I had."
"But you're not certain." His face turned cruel. "No, he's not certain, or he would have had you by now. He'd be the one dancing here in your arms, drawn by my siren call. But he's not. And you're in my arms. He's a fool."
"I didn't mean to offend you."
Malachi slowed almost to a halt, his voice turning hard. "Who are you?"
"I think I quite enjoy keeping you in the dark," she said with a faint laugh. His attentions—as superficial as they seemed—were somewhat enjoyable, flattering. "You wouldn't be half as interested in me were you to know all of my secrets, would you? That's the game."
"And do you have many secrets?"
Cleo's voice dropped to a whisper. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Flashes of other women in his arms, other men, cascaded through her mind every time she touched him. It was the closest she'd come to falling into a Vision since she'd lost the ability.
If she could just focus....
His mouth brushed against her cheek, and Cleo jolted. Her head was swimming again. "You could stay here with me," he whispered. "Leave your companions behind. Perhaps we could both find what we're looking for in each other?"
The smoky trail of his magic caressed her skin. Want surged through her. Need. But with it came the memory of Sebastian's hands upon her skin the night he'd helped unbutton her wedding gown. The gentle touch of his hands upon her back had stoked a fire this stranger's magic could not compare to. Malachi's magic was hungry and overwhelming, but it felt like a flame that would only burn too swiftly, leaving her unfulfilled. Sebastian's touch made her heart ache with a desire she couldn't even name, and she knew she would never forget that touch, never want another man, if only he'd give in to the temptation....
"It's tempting," she countered, and her smile softened a little. "But we'd be lying to each other. And to ourselves." Malachi turned her, and Cleo came up abruptly against that hard chest. Their eyes met. "Despite your magic, you're not the man I want. And I—I am not the woman you want."
"You don't know that."
"I do. I can feel it radiating off you, the same way I can feel your allure tempting me." Cleo reached up, pressing a hand to his cheek in an attempt to stir those flashes of Vision to life. They hammered through her, quicksilver darts of color, but nothing fully fleshed. Nothing like they'd once been.
A clock. A woman's laugh. The scent of lavender. The image of Malachi Gray standing alone in a hallway, his f
ist curling over a lady's glove as he looked down at it with an expression of such despair that her breath caught, and something began to suck her into the next image....
"No woman has ever captured my heart," he countered, but the words sounded very faraway.
"Lie," Cleo countered hollowly.
The garden faded, the touch of his arms vanishing. Light began to glow in front of her. A candelabra swam out of the darkness as Malachi lifted a candle from its brass stem and used it to light another. Cleo blinked, and then he was circling a small room, lighting candle after candle.
"You should never be left alone in the dark," he whispered, and Cleo began to make out the tomb-like structure he was circling.
A coffin made of glass, with something within it.
Someone.
A woman lay in serene repose, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow she rested upon. Malachi lit the last candle, his face implacable, but his eyes filled with a certain kind of desperation as he splayed one hand against the glass, reaching for his sleeping beauty, but never quite—
"What did you just say?" Malachi demanded, and his voice snapped her out of the memory—for that was what it was, she realized.
Then his face was in front of her, his skin paling even as she sucked in a sharp breath. What had she said?
"You should never be left alone in the dark...," Cleo repeated softly, her heart filled with sympathy. The Malachi Gray from her vision was not the one who stood before her now, his eyebrows narrowing tightly, and fury flaring in the green depths of his irises.
"Who are you?" he demanded in a hoarse voice. "What are you?"
"Are we bargaining again?" she asked lightly, but the spell was clearly broken, for his fingers locked around her wrist, and she realized they'd stopped dead in the center of the circle of dancers.
"Who sent you?" His grip tightened, and the pain swept from his eyes, replaced by a fury so intense it almost burned her. "Someone sent you, didn't they? Do you think this is a game you can win? You making vague comments that mean nothing, as if you know anything about me."
Sudden desire washed over her, swamping her in waves of pleasure. Cleo clung to his coat, her knees going weak and heat washing through her womb. She wanted to crush her mouth to his all of a sudden, to beg him for a kiss, just one kiss....
This was what Remington had warned her about.
Cleo dragged her hand to her mouth and bit into her knuckles, trying to break the lure of his magic. Sebastian. Sebastian.... But the thought of him only made her ache harder. "I know enough."
"I will break you," he whispered harshly. "You ignorant, foolish pawn. I will wreck you and make you beg me for more. Who sent you?"
Pain flared in her hand—her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm. "Who is the g-girl in the glass c-coffin?"
The lust evaporated.
Cleo collapsed against his chest, gasping hard and shaking from the brink of pleasure.
His warm humor and faint smile vanished as if they'd never been. This time he looked at her as though he finally saw the real her, and not merely a toy to play with. "Leave," he warned, "before I lose all sense of myself and break you."
"I th-think," she managed to say, "that one of us is already broken."
* * *
A flash of rose-colored silk skirts swept past. Cleo. Sebastian's gaze locked on her as the ring of dancers cut him off again. It felt like a conspiracy, but the dancers all moved too perfectly, too in rhythm. They couldn't be keeping him from getting to her. Could they?
He saw her again, her golden hair shining in the candlelight like a beacon. And everything in him went still.
Cleo was dancing.
With a stranger who looked like he wanted to devour her.
And there was a smile on her lips, one Sebastian hadn't seen for a very long time. It hit him like a punch to the throat. She didn't smile for him anymore. Not like that. Oh, she might offer a faint curve of the lips, but this was a genuinely happy smile. The kind that wrapped fingers around his heart as if to claim it.
"What's going on?" Bishop demanded, grabbing him by the arm. "We lost you."
"Cleo was separated from me by these others." He prowled the edge of the dance floor. "Someone's dancing with her. Remington told us not to get separated."
"So I did," Remington announced, materializing with Verity at his side. He paused, every muscle in his body turning to stone as he peered onto the dance floor. "It appears your wife has found Malachi Gray. Or perhaps he's found her, more to the point."
"That's Gray?" He didn't know why he was so angry.
Remington looked disgusted. "It would have to be her."
"What do you mean by that?"
Bishop and Remington exchanged a long look. Remington sighed. "I thought Verity and Cleo would be protected by their soul-bonds. Verity clearly is, but I'm sure Malachi sensed your wife walking into this garden the second she stepped foot over the boundary."
"Verity and my soul-bond is complete and accepted," Bishop muttered.
And his and Cleo's was not.
"Cleo is young, she's innocent... the perfect temptation. If she can keep her head, then we might have a chance to distract Malachi," Remington mused, watching her dance.
Like hell. He wasn't going to wait here another damned second.
"Sebastian," Remington warned, grabbing his sleeve, "One thing you need to understand is that Malachi Gray is no longer human. He sold himself a long time ago, to a mistress who takes pleasure in ruining the souls of mortals. Being in his presence will make you feel certain things; lust, violence, hunger, need. All those dark little thoughts that whisper in your ear of a night, when nobody is watching. And you mustn't—whatever you do—give in to them. Do you understand?"
Sebastian twitched a brow. "Understood."
It wouldn't be a problem.
He'd spent years denying himself.
He wasn't about to succumb now.
Turning, he slammed through the first ring of dancers, pushing and shoving them out of his way as they flocked in front of him to slow him down.
If the bastard touched her again....
Power brewed within him, stark and dangerous like the roll of a thundercloud on the horizon. The dancers fled as a coating of frost began to settle over the grass, and Sebastian stepped through into the open space just as Gray swept Cleo's back against his chest, and caressed her throat.
Their gazes collided, but all his sorcery was for naught, as he could not risk assaulting the bastard, not with Cleo there.
"Let her go," Sebastian said, and his words echoed with a dangerous power.
Gray's eyes grew heavy and he did something that made Cleo gasp. "Perhaps I'll keep her. She's so ripe. So hungry. It makes me ache...."
Rage obliterated his reason, and he took a step forward, but something was holding him back. An iron shackle around his arm—or no, his brother's hand.
"Remember your lessons," Bishop hissed. "He's baiting you."
Sebastian forced the rage away, grinding his teeth together and reining in the sheer amount of power surging through him. The ground shook a little, and it scared him, for he hadn't been aware of how on edge he was.
The grass had turned into sharp little shards, tipped with ice.
"Or perhaps I'll keep her as a concession for trespassing." The bastard whispered in her ear, but his gaze was locked on Sebastian, as if he welcomed the rage, and the thrill of violence in the air. "There is a price for coming here, especially uninvited. And perhaps if you tell me who sent you I'll forfeit the payment. Perhaps. Why don't we retire to my parlor to discuss the issue?"
"A rather good idea," said a hard voice from behind them. "Why don't we?"
Remington's voice acted like a bucket of ice water thrown over Mr. Gray. He froze. Not in the way of a startled creature, but a certain stillness crept over his body in a way that made Sebastian want to tuck Cleo protectively against his side. There was a flash of surprise on Gray's face, followed swiftly by some
thing else, something unidentifiable, before he settled that eerie gaze upon Remington as he gently pushed Sebastian and Bishop out of the way.
"Remy." The word was a soft-edged taunt. "You finally took up my invitation to visit."
"I'm not here to enjoy your pleasure gardens."
"No?" There was an edge in Gray's voice now, and all of them might as well be forgotten, for the two men locked stares in a way that indicated a past history Remington hadn't bloody well divulged when they were planning this visit.
"No." Remington shoved his hands in his pockets. "But we shall accept your offer to retire. There are things you and I need to discuss. In private. Take your hands off the girl. She's innocent, and if she's anyone's pawn, then she's mine."
"I'm fully aware she's innocent," Gray said, innuendo dripping off the words. His eyes locked on Sebastian's. "A dangerous thing, to let a young woman like this out in the world."
He stared back flatly. "A dangerous thing, to touch a man's wife."
"You look familiar," Gray said.
"I should."
But he didn't explain, and Gray's eyes slowly narrowed, curiously overcoming him.
"Very well. Come into my parlor." Said the spider to the fly. "Let us talk and become reacquainted."
And then he vanished into the crowd.
Chapter 7
"WHAT THE HELL was that all about?" Sebastian whispered in Cleo's ear as he escorted her toward the manor house Malachi Gray had indicated.
"All what?" Cleo retorted under her breath.
"You know what I'm speaking about."
Cleo glanced up from beneath her lashes. Her body hadn't quite forgotten the sensual touch of Malachi, or the feelings his magic evoked in her. "No, I don't believe I do. Am I not to dance with other men? You could ask me yourself, you know. Am I not to talk to other men? It seems as though I—"
"Did you not hear what Remington said?" Sebastian's jaw clenched and he finally looked down at her, his silver eyes glittering. "The man is dangerous."
