Conclave (Devil's Night 3.5)

I want to look away, because I can feel the tears at the back of my throat. I want to tell him. I want to get rid of this pain and fear, but… Our future looks perfect. I’m about to change it.

And I can’t.

We’re in love. Right now, in this moment. Things change in seconds, and I can’t.

“Where did you go?” He searches my eyes. “Where are you right now?”

I feel my chin tremble.

“There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

I open my mouth to say it. Or kiss him or anything, but I...

I have all night. I can’t yet.

Pulling away from him, I turn on my heel and charge out of the room.

“Rika!” he barks.

But I don’t stop. I swipe the tear off my cheek just as it falls and make my way out toward the sun deck, passing through the lounge area where everyone is congregating on the couches with a drink.

I stop at the edge, peering out over the black ocean, a white beam of moonlight spreading into the horizon. The wind blows through my dress, the chilly air doing nothing to soothe my nerves.

Just let me make love to him one more time before I fuck everything up.

“How far out are we going?” someone suddenly asks.

I blink away my tears, looking over my shoulder at Ryen.

“The boat’s been moving for a few hours now,” she points out, laughing a little. “We must be far enough out. No one is escaping to shore at this point.”

I turn back around, fixing my eyes on the sea. “I told them not to stop until they hear from me,” I tell her. “Or we hit land.”

“The next land is Ireland,” Misha says.

I force a smirk. “Then we better work fast.”

Actually, Misha and Ryen can probably sit the rest of the night out. Their business is done, and they certainly won’t need to hear the rest of what goes on. The Cove. Damon’s inheritance. His plans to put Banks in D.C., which he thinks I don’t know about, but really, it makes perfect sense.

Will’s grandfather spends most of his career staying in power, and while Damon’s motivation isn’t entirely selfless, Banks would be suited for it. Once she finishes her degree, he’ll convince her to run for state legislature until she’s thirty and old enough to run for Senate. Everyone perfectly positioned to make the world how we want it to be and connected enough to keep making money. It’s shady as hell, but she won’t be bad in that office. Not bad at all.

If she goes for it, that is. Unfortunately, I foresee a huge fight first.

I turn around, seeing Damon enter the lounge, and I grip the railing behind me. “How’s Winter?”

“She’s okay,” he assures, carrying a box to the table. “Just freshening up.”

He plops down at the table, across from Misha and Ryen, and turns his attention to them.

“Babysoft,” he teases and dumps a box on the table in front of Ryen.

“What is this?” she asks, opening it up.

She reaches in and pulls out an ornate, black eye mask made of metal with black ribbons to secure it around her head. The design allows for her skin to peek through the gaps and has exotic holes for the eyes. It’s more a masquerade-type mask than what we wear. It’s beautiful, though.

“It’s the girl who comes out when you and Misha are alone,” Damon explains. “It’s for when it’s dark and private, and he wants to do fun things with you.”

Misha takes it out of her hand and sticks it back in the box. “No.”