Lucifer meowed softly when I walked past the library. He was curled up in his favorite spot on the back of the chair and tried to entice me to come pet him, but his single meow wasn’t a strong effort, and a half second later he put his head back down.
It had snowed this afternoon, hopefully the last of the season since it would be April next week. There was just enough to be a dusting of white blanketing the ground, and since it was a full moon and cloudless night, it was unnaturally bright outside.
I didn’t bother turning on the lights in the kitchen. Instead, I used the light coming from the screen of my phone to help illuminate my path. I always carried it with me now as I moved from room to room in the Hale house, paranoid to be without the ability to call for help, even when Alice continued to live in the converted stables.
I poured myself a glass of water and padded over to the back window, looking out at the grounds while I drank. The evergreens of the hedge maze looked beautiful and deceptively enticing. It was bitterly cold outside, and I could feel it seeping through the glass pane, trying to get at me.
I shivered and turned away.
After I refilled my glass, I started for the door and was halfway out of the room when footsteps pounded loudly, approaching the kitchen from the back staircase. I turned in place and was silent as the door was thrown open and Macalister burst in.
He was shirtless and drenched in sweat, and he stormed over to the fridge like a guided missile. The door was yanked open, a bottle of the fancy sports drink he preferred was snatched up, and he didn’t bother closing the door before he started drinking. The interior light of the fridge lit him up and made his sweaty chest gleam.
How many miles had he run tonight? It had to have been a lot because he drained the entire bottle and then reached for another.
It was interesting to learn Macalister Hale was not his meticulous self when he was tired. He haphazardly tossed the black cap onto the counter and gulped his drink straight from the bottle, rather than pour it in a glass and sip it calmly like the refined gentleman he pretended to be.
For the first time since Aspen, I saw him as something other than the Minotaur. He was just a man, running himself to the point of exhaustion so he could find sleep. His grace and elegance were missing, and I had to take advantage of his weakened state. It was exactly what he would have done to me.
“Any word from Ascension?” I asked, puncturing the silence.
I’d meant to startle him, and it worked. He jolted, the red liquid inside his bottle sloshed around, and his head snapped toward me, his eyes narrowed like he’d been ambushed. But the defenses came down when he spied me across the way. The fridge was shut, and he turned to fully face me, resting one hand on the counter and the other on the island on the other side. It gave me a view of the rapid rise and fall of his chest, faintly darkened with hair.
“Royce hasn’t told you?”
“No. We don’t talk about it,” I lied.
His face was in shadow and the smile didn’t materialize, but he knew I wasn’t telling the truth. “Ascension’s board voted to enact a shareholder rights plan.”
Meaning anyone who already owned shares in the company would be allowed to buy new shares at half price. It was meant to dilute HBHC’s ownership and prevent the takeover, and it even came with its own term. “A poison pill.”
“Yes.”
“So, they’ve decided to fight.”
This time, his cold smile did materialize, and excitement lit his eyes. “Yes.” He tilted his head. “But you already knew that.”
I tossed a hand out, giving up the charade. “You’re right. Royce tells me everything.”
The excitement in him died. “No, Marist. I don’t believe he has.”
Alarm went through me like a spike, but I tried to recover quickly. This was another attempt to come between us, and his manipulation wasn’t going to work this time. “We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
The trap he’d laid for me was so deep, I had time to feel the fall and watch the doors closed around me.
“Ah,” Macalister said. “You’ve told him about the morning of Alice’s apology, then. How did he take it?”
My voice was a ghost, not wanting to confront the memory. “That’s . . . different.”
He asked it simply, like it didn’t carry enormous weight. “Why?”
“Because it’d hurt him.” I swallowed a breath. “And because I’m ashamed.”
There was a fleeting emotion that flickered through his expression, but it was gone too fast to put a label on it. Concern? Remorse?