Chapter 100
Sebastian
"She's gone."
The attendant's words hit me with all the impact of expected bad news—unwelcome but not surprising, irritating but somehow darkly satisfying in its inevitability.
"Define gone." I set down my wine glass with deliberate care, already feeling that familiar itch beneath my skin, the one that always preceded a hunt.
"The restroom is empty, sir. Just an unconscious cleaning woman in one of the stalls."
Of course.
Of fucking course she couldn't resist.
I'd been half-expecting it since the moment she'd manufactured that look of apologetic distress, claiming she needed the bathroom with those wide silver eyes that had learned to lie so convincingly over the past four days of our domestic charade. The little liar had even managed a convincing blush, as if the thought of discussing bodily functions embarrassed her.
The fact that she'd actually gone through with it—that she'd looked me in the eye and lied so beautifully—only made the inevitable recapture more appealing.
My fingers tightened around the wine glass stem, and I forced myself to release it before the crystal shattered. Marcus was watching me with that careful wariness he'd developed over years of proximity to my temper.
"How long?" My voice came out too controlled, each word clipped.
"Twelve minutes since she entered, my lord."
Twelve fucking minutes. Long enough to drug a witness, acquire a disguise, and disappear into a crowd of two hundred guests, all while I'd been standing here making polite conversation and pretending I didn't notice her absence stretching past reasonable limits.
Clever girl.
Clever, infuriating, mine.
I started toward the corridor, my stride controlled but purposeful. Marcus fell into step behind me, already reaching for his comm unit.
"Wait here," I told him when we reached the bathroom entrance. "If she comes back while I'm checking, I want to know immediately."
The bathroom was indeed empty except for the unconscious woman slumped against the tile like a discarded doll. I crouched beside her, checking her pulse with fingers that wanted to curl into fists—steady, strong. Drugged, not dead.
Lirael had retained some fragment of mercy even in her desperation to escape my protection.
How fucking thoughtful.
I straightened abruptly, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. She was too smart to simply walk out wearing her own face, not when she knew I'd stationed guards at every exit with explicit orders to detain anyone matching her description.
Which meant she'd found a way to change her appearance in twelve minutes.
Which meant she'd been planning this.
Which meant every sweet smile, every shy touch, every goddamn "yes, dear" over the past four days had been a performance.
The rage that swept through me was almost exhilarating in its purity.
"Marcus." I kept my voice low, controlled, even as my hands flexed at my sides. "Full lockdown. Every exit sealed, every room searched. And pull the security footage from the main entrance—facial recognition on every female guest who arrived in the past hour. Flag anyone we don't have in our database."
"Yes, my lord." He was already speaking into his comm, his voice crisp with professional urgency.
Run, little moon. Run as far as those pretty legs can carry you.
When I catch you—and I will catch you—I'm going to make you understand exactly what happens to wives who lie to their husbands.
I'm going to strip away every layer of deception until there's nothing left but raw, honest terror.
And then I'm going to make you beg me to forgive you.
The thought sent a dark thrill through my chest, and I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the tension coiling there. I was already cataloging hiding spots and calculating search patterns when the ballroom's main entrance opened.
The crowd's reaction was immediate—conversations dying mid-sentence, spines straightening, champagne flutes hastily set aside as if the very act of appearing relaxed might constitute an offense. Everyone suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere.
Victor Blackwood entered with the measured stride of someone who'd never needed to hurry in seventy-three years of existence. Deep gray suit immaculate despite the late hour, black ebony walking stick topped with a blood-red ruby that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent light, and on his right hand's little finger, a moonstone ring that caught the light like trapped starfire.
"Lord Blackwood," they murmured as he passed, voices hushed with reverence and fear. "Patriarch. My lord."
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I watched his approach with the carefully neutral mask I'd perfected over decades of family gatherings, revealing nothing of the complicated tangle his presence always evoked—respect and resentment, admiration and carefully buried rage at lessons taught through methods that had left scars deeper than any blade could reach.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, and I forced them to relax, finger by finger.
Of course he's here.
Of course he chose tonight, when I'm distracted and hunting a runaway wife through a crowd of witnesses.
The timing is too perfect to be coincidence.
"Sebastian." His voice carried absolute authority despite his age, each syllable weighted with expectation and judgment. "You've abandoned your hosting duties to lurk in doorways. I assume there's a compelling reason?"
Yeah, Father. My woman decided to drug a servant and vanish into thin air.
"A minor situation," I said instead, keeping my tone respectful but uninformative. "Already being addressed."
"I see." He studied me with that unreadable expression he'd mastered before I was born, the one that always made me feel like a child caught with stolen sweets. "And does this situation involve the special guest I've heard so much about? The one you've been keeping rather close company with recently?"
The question landed like a blade between my ribs, precisely targeted and impossible to deflect without confirming exactly what he wanted to know.
My jaw tightened fractionally before I could stop it.
He knows about her.
Has known, probably since the moment I brought her off that godforsaken island.
The question is what he intends to do with that information.
"The reports are accurate," I said carefully, choosing each word like stepping through a minefield. "Though I'm surprised you're taking such interest in my personal acquisitions."
"Everything you acquire becomes family business eventually." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Especially when it attracts attention from organizations like the Genesis Foundation. I trust you understand the complications that could arise from antagonizing such well-connected entities over a piece of exotic livestock?"
The casual dismissal of Lirael as "livestock" sent rage spiking through my chest like a white-hot poker, and I had to lock my muscles to keep from reacting visibly.
She's not livestock.
She's mine.
There's a fucking difference.
"I'm well aware of the potential complications," I replied evenly, though my fingernails bit into my palms. "And equally aware of my ability to handle them without requiring paternal intervention."
"Of course." His gaze drifted past me toward the ballroom, sharp and assessing. "Though perhaps you should focus less on external threats and more on maintaining control of your own household. Your guest appears to have wandered off while you were distracted."
Fuck.