Ruin (The Rhodes 1)
I inch closer to Hampton’s son, pretending to offer him a napkin. “Your father betrayed us. See that you learn from his mistakes.”
His eyes almost bulge out, like he’s seeing his father’s ghost. He opens his mouth, but closes it again when the waitress scurries over with a tray of cleaning supplies. Dylan and I seize the chance to leave him.
We make our way through the reception hall. High-quality carpets spill under our feet like clotted blood. Chatter reduces as the veteran mini-orchestra plays Tchaikovsky’s third symphony in D major. I smile. Uncle Alexander’s favourite.
“Your recklessness is crossing the lines, Aaron.” Dylan maintains his show-time smile, his voice detached. “Why would you risk telling Hampton everything? We’re powerful but not invincible.”
“He has no proof. If he intended to report me, he would’ve already.” I pick a drink from a passing butler. “But the fact that the word came out means we have a rat to take care of.”
More blood for me.
Dylan’s relaxed features sweep the guests, nodding and smiling at anyone who crosses his gaze. “That’s one more reason to be careful. This is a sensitive period. I’m not Tristan. I don’t give a damn about protecting you and I certainly find no pleasure in covering your tracks.”
“How do you manage to smile like that all the time?” I ask, struggling with my own show-time smile.
His grinning face slips into a scowl. “Have you been listening?”
I take a long swig of my drink as we stop in the centre of the hall. “You were talking?”
He glares at me, but soon goes back to his smiling façade. Everything in his face is unmovable except the curving lips. “Smile. Lowell is coming,” Dylan mutters under his breath. “He’s the next name on the list.”
Our host’s grey hair comes into view. He marches towards us, a flute of Champagne in one hand, and his young wife latching onto the other.
“Lord Hart, Lord Rhodes.” Lowell nods at us. “You honour our Noble Community gathering.”
“The honour is ours, Lord Lowell.” I smile longer than I’m comfortable with. “The reception you prepared is quite remarkable.”
Not long after, a few other guests join our circle. I receive the usual sugar-coated comments and begrudgingly offer some of my own. Dylan, on the other hand, takes the fake nonsense way too seriously. Offering compliments, and treating the masquerade like some theatrical accomplishment.
Everyone here is an arrogant, egotistical bastard. Dylan and I included. We only come to these gatherings to brag about our royalties, names, and power.
Our noble blood is a deal with the devil. It gives us the power to step on everything.
The world where predators like me hide in plain sight. Nourishing our sadist needs in dark dungeons. I doubt any of them have actual demons planted in their heads, though.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” I nod. “If you shall excuse me.”
I head to the balcony, abandoning the drink on the way. Spending the night fantasising about killing the old men would’ve been a splendid option, but this is much more important.
Lowell’s showy reception hall fades in the background as I reach the dark empty terrace. Cold wind fans me in increasing waves, mocking my tailored tuxedo’s inability to protect me.
I retrieve my phone and work its code.
The dimly lit dungeon room comes into view. A half-naked Mae sits on the bed.
The sight of her clothes— or the lack thereof— sends flowing heat into my veins. One half wants to see the rest of her skin. The other wishes to extract blood from it.
An empty tray of food lies at her side as her feet dangle over the edge. Her shoulders are pushed back, legs and knees straight. That determined expression has been plastered on her face ever since yesterday. She didn’t cry, scream, or kick the door. She has been calm. In a strange way.
What could she be thinking about?
Me. Or more precisely, the situation I put her into. Her mind must be wrapping around the reality of things, crowding with options to escape this.
As if on cue, she hops off the bed and paces the room in hasty steps. Back and forth. Like a caged mouse. Her arms wrap around her waist, and she rubs the bare skin of her back as much as she can reach.
She’s cold.
My freezing fingers twitch reminding me she’s not alone in that. Only a terrace’s balcony is different than a dungeon.