Chapter 29
Lirael
The jasmine's drowsy gratitude still lingered in my fingertips as I slipped deeper into the club's formal gardens, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Stone pathways wound between meticulously trimmed hedges and classical statuary—the kind of ostentatious landscaping that screamed old money trying too hard. Perfect cover, so long as I stayed low, stayed quiet, stayed invisible.
And I need to use every goddamn second of it.
Voices drifted down from an upper terrace, carried on the afternoon breeze—male, relaxed, the kind of conversation that happened when powerful men thought they were alone.
I recognized Sebastian's dark timbre immediately, that velvet-wrapped-steel quality that made every word sound like either a threat or a promise. The second voice took me a moment longer to place, but when I did, my breath caught and held.
Damian Gray.
Oh fuck. Damian's here. Damian, who helped me survive that glass hell, who got me into Ghost Protocol when I was still figuring out which end of the code was up.
The closest thing I'd had to an ally in the Genesis Foundation's nightmare, and he was here, talking to the monster who'd claimed me like a fucking show dog.
I crept closer, using the ivy-covered stone supports of the terrace as cover. My hands shook slightly as I gripped the lattice, peering through gaps in the climbing plants. Above me, two silhouettes stood against the afternoon light: Sebastian's predatory stillness, Damian's more relaxed but equally commanding posture.
My silver-white hair would give me away instantly in full sunlight—it practically glowed like a fucking beacon—but the terrace overhang cast deep shadows here. Still, I wasn't taking chances. I wound nearby ivy into a makeshift covering, weaving it through my hair with quick, practiced movements, my fingers trembling with adrenaline. The plants responded to my touch with sleepy cooperation, their leaves arranging themselves for maximum concealment.
Good. Good. Now shut up and listen, Lirael. Information is the only weapon you've got right now.
I pressed myself against the stone, went very, very still, and listened.
"—asking questions about you," Damian was saying, his cultured British accent carrying clearly in the garden's acoustics. "The Genesis Foundation's backers are not pleased, Sebastian. Specifically about what you took from Black Reef."
My stomach twisted into knots. They're talking about me. Of course they're talking about me. I'm the fucking specimen.
Sebastian's laugh was cold enough to frost glass. "Let them be displeased. If they had the spine to confront me directly, they'd storm the Obsidian Tower. This skulking around, gathering intelligence—it's the behavior of sewer rats, not apex predators."
"Sewer rats can still bite," Damian said, his tone shifting, taking on the careful weight of someone delivering unwelcome news. "They're demanding you return her, Sebastian. Whatever you did to get her off that island, they want her back."
"I acquired property that interested me." Sebastian's voice held the barest hint of amusement, like this was all some fucking game to him. "Found her trying to escape their little Eden. Snatched her right out from under their noses. Used some... unconventional methods."
Beneath the terrace, my fingers dug into the soft earth hard enough to hurt. Property. Snatched. That's all I am to him—a fucking commodity he grabbed like a limited-edition handbag.
The rage that flared in my chest was so hot it nearly made me dizzy, but I forced it down, swallowed it like poison. Anger wouldn't help me now. I needed to stay cold, stay focused, stay smart.
"They're calling it theft," Damian said quietly. "The Foundation's backers are demanding restitution. These people are dangerous, Sebastian. The whispers suggest they've done things that would make even our kind uncomfortable. Eating werewolf hearts. Hunting sentient beings for sport. They're not just ruthless—they're psychotic."
Yeah, no shit. I lived in their fucking zoo for three years.
"Then they can come demand their property to my face," Sebastian said, and the lazy menace in his words made my skin prickle with goosebumps. "I'm not difficult to find."
A pause. When Damian spoke again, his voice carried genuine concern that made something in my chest tighten. "If this is just about amusement, about having something exotic to play with, then give the creature back. Avoid provoking these madmen over a pet."
Creature. Pet. Jesus fucking Christ, is that all anyone sees?
The silence that followed stretched so long I thought maybe they'd moved away, and I was just about to risk shifting position when Sebastian spoke again.
"Do you have someone you've been longing for in the Foundation, Damian?"
My heart stopped. Just completely fucking stopped.
Another pause, longer this time, and I could almost hear Damian's internal debate before he finally answered.
"There is someone," he admitted, and I heard something in his voice I'd never heard before—softness, a tenderness that made my throat close up and my eyes burn. "Yes. There is someone."
Oh god. Oh god, he's talking about me. He has to be talking about me.
All those times I'd thought I was completely alone in that glass prison, that nobody gave a shit whether I lived or died—Damian had been watching. Caring. He'd been trying to help me the whole fucking time. But he didn't know that Sebastian's pet was me.
My eyes stung, hot and wet, and I blinked furiously to clear them. No. No crying. Not now. Not fucking now.
"Is she pretty?" Sebastian's question came out casual, almost lazy, but I could hear the edge beneath it—sharp as broken glass.
"Very pretty."
"Not as pretty as my pet, I'm sure." The possessiveness in Sebastian's voice was so pronounced it was almost funny. Almost. If it wasn't about me, about my body being compared like I was livestock at a fucking county fair.
I pressed my fist against my mouth, fighting down the hysterical laugh that wanted to bubble up. This was insane. This whole situation was absolutely batshit insane.
"Can I see your pet?" Damian asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his tone, like he had no idea he was asking about the same person he'd just admitted to caring for.
"No." Flat, absolute, brooking zero argument.
A soft sound—furniture scraping, maybe—and then Sebastian's voice again, darker now, threaded with something possessive and dangerous. "My things are not for display. Not for you, not for anyone."
Things. I'm a fucking thing to him.
My nails dug crescents into my palms. The urge to climb up there and claw his eyes out was so strong I actually shook with it, but I forced myself to stay still, stay hidden, stay smart. Getting myself killed in a fit of rage wouldn't help anyone.
"You're being possessive over a pet," Damian observed, and I could hear the faint amusement mixed with concern. "That's not like you."
"She's mine," Sebastian said simply. "And I don't share what's mine."
The conversation shifted then, Damian pressing about the danger of keeping me locked up, about the Foundation's backers being psychotic enough to retaliate in ways that would make even werewolves flinch, about Sebastian not giving a shit about any of it because apparently his ego was larger than the fucking Pacific Ocean.
But my mind was already racing ahead, cataloging information, building strategies.
Damian was here. Damian, who'd helped me before, who might help me again if I could just find a way to contact him without Sebastian knowing. But how? And what would happen if Sebastian discovered that connection, discovered that his "brother" had feelings for his "property"?
He'd use it. He'd absolutely use it. Turn Damian against me, or me against Damian, or both of us against each other. He'd make it into another fucking game.