by Theresa Kay
“Hi, Tristan,” says Isobel from behind me. “You look rather dashing this evening.”
Yes, he really does. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything more than a rented tux for a high school dance, so seeing this tailored version of the formal attire is something else. Every line looks cut to flatter Tristan’s form, from broad shoulders to narrow waist, and the effect is jaw dropping, much like the boy himself. He’s clean-shaven, his dark-blond hair tamed into a style that’s close to slicked back, but a few errant strands escape to fall over his forehead and soften the look. Add it all together with the wide, dimpled smile and bright, golden-brown eyes and I’m stumped for words.
“Yes, well, thank you?” says Tristan. He appears unsettled, and he’s fidgeting with his hands. “The dress suits you, Selene. You look lovely.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I avert my eyes. “Thanks.”
“I wasn’t sure on the sizing, but—”
“Wait,” I say, my gaze darting up to meet his. “The dress was from you?”
“Yes?” His brows draw together. “Who did you think it was from?”
“Adrian . . .”
“Oh.” He stares down at the floor. “Well, it was Dumont’s idea anyway.” His gaze comes back up, and he flashes me a strained smile. “Are you ready?”
“As I’m going to be,” I say. I call out a quick goodbye to Isobel before Tristan and I make our way outside.
When we reach the quad, Tristan tucks my hand into his elbow and leads me toward the parking lot and to a silver Mercedes, which is definitely not the car he had before. I give him a questioning look.
“Mother . . . She took away my car.” His gaze goes everywhere but to me. “Dumont volunteered his.”
“That’s . . . uh . . . nice of him?”
Tristan laughs. “Believe me, I’m sure I’ll be paying for it in the end somehow. Besides, he did it for you, not for me.” He pauses as he opens the passenger side door and waits for me to get inside. “You two are . . . close.”
That’s an odd comment. Is Tristan jealous? There’s absolutely nothing like that going on between me and Adrian, and there never will be. He’s fun and he’s my friend, but he’s a little too wild for me.
“I find it hard to believe that anyone who takes the time to get to know Adrian isn’t close to him,” I finally say. “He’s one of those people who’s like a force of nature. Once you’re in the inner circle, you’re stuck with him.”
Tristan nods absentmindedly and glances down to check to see if my dress is all the way in before shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side. He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, smoothly shifting gears as he exits onto the main road. An awkward tension hangs heavy in the air between us, and I have no idea how to dispel it.
I chuckle nervously. “I don’t know why I didn’t ask this before, but how far is it to the party?”
“About an hour’s drive,” he replies. “The estate is in Western Albemarle County.”
I nod and then reach out to fiddle with the radio. Finding a generic pop station, I settle back in my seat and watch the trees go by outside the window as I digest the information he just gave me.
My grandparents live maybe twenty minutes from where I grew up. Do my parents know that? Does Connor? They knew who my birth mother was all along, so I find it hard to believe that they know nothing of my biological family. But why keep it from me? I was a happy kid, and I love my parents. Were they scared to lose me? I wouldn’t have gone running off to some people I don’t even know.
Connor mentioned something about Helen wanting to hide me for my own protection. But protection from whom? Am I going against everything Helen wanted by becoming involved in the witch world? Even more than earlier, I wish I’d had the time to talk to my parents about this. Burke knows where they are, or at least has their number. I could have asked him to get in touch with them.
But I didn’t.
I jumped into this and—
“Everything will be fine,” says Tristan, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I—” He breaks off and glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I can promise you that much.”
That is . . . not what I expected and somehow not as reassuring as he seems to think it is. What are the bad things that could happen?
He releases the gear shift and grabs my hand, the one that’s pulling at my dress. “You’ll ruin the fabric.” I huff out a laugh, and he slides his fingers in between mine. “Everything will be fine.”
“If you say so . . .”
“I do say so.” He gives me a small smile and squeezes my hand.
I return the smile, but mine is strained. I want to believe he’s right and that the sincerity in his voice is real, but I don’t know what to believe about him anymore. How much of the feeling between us is real? How much is faked? And how do I tell the difference? I can’t trust my instincts on this when so much of me wants to believe in him. When so much of me simply wants him.
I go back to staring out the window.
The rest of the ride passes in a companionable silence with nothing but the soft sounds of the radio playing in the background, and soon Tristan pulls to a stop in front of a large gate. I expect him to use an intercom or something, but the gate actually appears to be controlled by a ward. I’m not sure how the ward knows who’s invited or who’s allowed in, but I imagine it’s somewhat similar to how a blood ward works.
The gate opens on silent hinges, and Tristan slowly makes his way up the long driveway. The path to the house is twisty, and I expect to see it come into view after every curve, but this driveway is longer than Ravencrest’s, longer even than the one at Tristan’s parent’s residence, and it takes ages for the house to come into view.
I suck in a sharp breath. The place is huge. Bigger than Tristan’s parents’ and near to the size of one of the Ravencrest dorms. Perfectly maintained lawn space spreads out behind the house in gently rolling hills before ending at a short stone wall with woods on the other side. There are even some of those shaped bush things . . . What are they called? Topiaries? Yeah, those.
If I didn’t know it before, it’s obvious now: I’m in way over my head.
Fancy cars line the drive leading up to the wide walkway in front of the house. Each car stops, passengers get out—with assistance from an attendant, of course—and those who don’t have drivers switch places with valets. We’re the sixth car in line, and as the cars ahead of us deliver their passengers, we inch closer and closer.
And my dread grows stronger and stronger.
Tristan grabs my hand, squeezes, and when that gets no response, he gently turns my face toward him with a finger on my chin. “You’re better than this. You have more fire than this. You had no problem telling me exactly what you thought of me that very first day. Don’t let the grandeur or the jewels or anything else make you forget these are simply ordinary people. No matter what they say or do tonight, they can’t affect you. This isn’t your life unless you choose it.”
This is one of those times I very much want to believe the warmth in his words and the sincerity in his eyes. When he says things like that it makes me want things I shouldn’t.
Like him.
I say nothing, just give him a grateful smile, thanking him for the kind words whether he means them or not.
And now it’s our turn.
The attendant opens my door and reaches down to assist me from the car. He waits with me until Tristan has exited the vehicle and walked around to take my arm. Tristan places my hand in his bent elbow then rests his other hand on top of mine as we venture up the wide walkway to the double doors leading in to the house.
But first, we get to go through another line. As each group of people or couple approaches the door, a gentleman there speaks with them, and then gestures for them to enter.
At our turn, the guy at the door raises an eyebrow.
“Tristan St. James,” says the boy at my s
ide. “And guest.”
The door guy dips his chin and sweeps his hand toward the front door. “Welcome, sir, madam.”
Tristan leads me through the door, his shoulders back and his steps sure. In this moment, I am so very glad he’s here with me. I would have never done this on my own. Or, if I had, I would have run at the sight of the topiaries.
We’re in a large . . . hall? Room? I’m not sure what to call it. Maybe it’s because I never saw the main part of the St. James house, but this place seems levels above the stuffiness of that one. Would I have grown up here? From what I’ve heard, it’s common to share residences in the more prominent families, and this place is much too big for only two people. At least ten people could live in this house and still never see each other.
We find ourselves in another line, this time making our way toward a second set of double doors that lead into a large room, seemingly where the party is being held.
There’s a couple standing outside the doors, greeting guests as they pass and, as we draw closer, I inhale sharply.
The couple is them. Nikolas and Thea. My biological grandparents.
And behind them . . . A large portrait of Nikolas and Thea and a little girl with my dark hair, my olive skin, and my nose. The little girl must be Helen.
Why didn’t anyone tell me how strong the resemblance was? Certainly I have plenty of features courtesy of my unknown father, but I don’t know how my grandparents will miss my resemblance to their daughter.
The sudden urge to run strums in my veins, and I even take a stutter step backward, as if it’s midnight and I’m Cinderella and my coach is about to turn into a pumpkin.
Tristan’s hand brushes against the bare skin of my lower back, and he gently urges me forward. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “It will be fine. The odds they’re paying attention to anything but greeting their guests is slim.” He laughs softly against my neck, a bare whisper of breath, sending chills down my spine. “That is, if you relax. You look like a hunted animal.”
The tension drains out of me as he rubs small circles on my lower back. I can do this. I can.
And we’re next.
I plaster a smile on my face as Tristan leads me up to them.
Nikolas quirks a brow, and his gaze goes from Tristan’s feet to his face. “Bernadette sent you?”
Tristan offers a tight smile and half a nod, I’m assuming because Bernadette didn’t actually send him. “Always a pleasure, Nikolas.” He dips his chin in Thea’s direction. “You look lovely this evening, Thea.”
“Thank you, Tristan,” says Thea. My grandmother’s expression is a tad warmer, her smile small but there, and she doesn’t give him the disappointed look my grandfather did. Her attention moves to me, her brow furrowing as she openly stares at my face. She tilts her head to the side, thoughtful.
“May I introduce my guest, Selene . . .” Tristan’s eyes widen a fraction, and I realize what the problem is. He can’t exactly give them the Andras name, and he doesn’t know the name I grew up with.
What do I do? Is it bad form to introduce myself? Is that worse than letting them think he doesn’t know my last name?
Ignoring Tristan’s dangling introduction, Thea smiles warmly as she reaches down to grab my hand. She squeezes it in between two of hers. “A pleasure to meet you, dear.”
“Oh, um, you too.” I flash a strained smile in her direction and then one at Nikolas. “You too, sir.”
Nikolas barely spares me a glance, just gives a noncommittal nod, his gaze already focused on the couple behind us.
Tristan’s hand again presses against my lower back, and I allow him to usher me past my grandparents and into an area that reminds me of the ballroom at Ravencrest, though maybe not quite so large and bright. There are alcoves along the walls, and the room is lit by a similar chandelier, but this one is more intricate, more ostentatious.
Waiters in black pants and white shirts move throughout the crowd of people carrying silver trays. A waiter with a tray full of glasses passes near us, and Tristan snags two of them, handing one of them to me. He downs the liquid in a few quick gulps and then deposits the empty glass on another server’s tray.
I take a hesitant sip, and the slightly dry, bitter taste of champagne hits my tongue. No doubt it’s some fancy vintage, but champagne isn’t really my thing. Shifters don’t drink and, despite the fact underage drinking seems to be expected and maybe even encouraged in the witch world, alcohol in general isn’t my thing either. I lower the glass and hold it at my side, twisting the stem between two fingers. I send a nervous glance at Tristan from the corner of my eye, looking for what I don’t know, but whatever it is, I don’t find it.
The hastily tossed back glass of champagne appears to have had no effect on him. He’s got a fake smile on his face, the armor he uses with ninety-nine percent of the population. The only crack in his demeanor is the quick and very visible way he swallows, like he’s choking back his actual personality so he can survive here.
“I’m aware you didn’t sign up for the schmoozing portion of the evening, but if Nikolas is under the impression my mother sent me as a representative, I need to . . . make the rounds, such as it is.” He glances down at me, his gaze softening slightly. “You can wait here if you want?”
My gaze darts around the room. Wait here? In this pit of vipers? By myself? I shake my head. “I’d rather not.” I pause. “Monroe. That’s the name you can introduce me by. If it comes up again.”
The corners of his lips lift in an infinitesimal smile, and he nods in acknowledgment.
And then we’re off. Tristan leads me from one side of the room to the other, one group of people to the next, his hand a constant presence at my waist, brushing against my arm, pressing against the small of my back. He makes introductions, but most of the names go in one ear and out the other. Not that it matters. Once whatever people we’re—he’s—talking to realize I’m no one of any real import, at least not as far as they know, they somewhat blatantly ignore me.
An hour later, we’ve barely made it halfway around the room, every group we pass pulling Tristan into long-winded conversations on subjects I couldn’t care less about.
Tristan and I are standing with five other people, me off slightly to one side and barely part of the conversation, and my boredom at this point has led to me finding my taste for champagne. Or at least my thirst has led to it. There’s not a single other drink I can see, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask for something else or what . . . so I drink the champagne.
Not my best idea. I’ve only had two glasses and my face is warm, my toes a little numb, and my head a little foggy. Why did I drink all that champagne again? Even worse than the fact that I’m more than a little buzzed and bound to make a fool out of myself, I really, really have to pee.
And I have no clue what the procedure is. Or is it etiquette? I don’t freakin’ know.
Tristan is so involved in his conversation with these people that I don’t want to pull him out of it. He looks like he might even be enjoying himself. He’s animated, his hands punctuating his words and his eyes bright. He looks . . . like he belongs here. The contrast between us has never been clearer, because I definitely do not belong here.
And I don’t want to be here.
At the same time, I don’t want to take Tristan away from the party when he’s so clearly in his element. So, I slink away. Like a coward. I let myself fade into the background of the conversation and ever so slowly remove myself from it, moving to one of the alcoves along the wall.
Stepping into the alcove doesn’t completely cut me off from the room, but the space feels private somehow, like I can stand here and observe with no one knowing. Of course, that doesn’t solve my bathroom problem. The talisman might solve my issue, but I don’t think finding a bathroom is the use Basil had in mind for it, and I don’t want to waste the spell.
I toss back the last few drops of champagne in my glass and look for one of the waiters carrying an emp
ty tray. The closest one is across the room. Maybe I can ask him about a bathroom when I pass off my glass. Like, low-key whisper it or something.
Or what if I slid my way into one of these groups, waited for a break in the conversation, and then asked?
Someone chuckles behind me, and I spin around, almost losing my balance, but the man grabs my arm and holds me steady.
“You look lost,” he says with a glint in his eyes that he really shouldn’t be aiming in my direction since he’s at least forty.
I squint at him as I tilt my head to the side. Dark curls, brown eyes . . . Why does he look so familiar?
The guy must take my intense studying of him as some sort of positive signal because he grabs my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles. What is with rich people and doing that? It’s so weird.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says.
“Nope. Don’t think so,” I reply.
He waits. For me to offer my name? Am I supposed to go first?
His lips curl into an amused smile, and once again I’m struck by how damn familiar he looks. “Charles Dumont.”
Dumont?
“You’re related to Adrian,” I blurt out. “That’s why you look so familiar.” And also, why I should maybe be a little wary of this guy. Besides saying his brother isn’t quite as much of an ass as the rest of them, Adrian has never had anything good to say about his family members.
Charles’s smile turns knowing. “You know my nephew? Does that mean you are a student at Ravencrest?”
“Yes, I’m Selene,” I say, holding out a hand.
Another amused tilt of his lips as he takes my hand for a second time, this time in the more traditional greeting. “I haven’t seen you at one of these parties before. Is it your first time?”
“Yes. I—yes.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?” His expression is so open and his smile so warm and, well, familiar that I find myself answering honestly.