And then Killian brings his hand down on her ass, giving it a nice, loud smack.
She stumbles, voice full out of outrage when she squeals, “Asshole!”
Killian gives her an expressionless wink.
I press my hand into the small of her back, ushering her out of the den. “Don’t wait up for us!”
In the foyer, she asks, “When’s the last time you brought a date to one of these things? My mom made it sound like it was a big deal.” She frowns contemplatively. “I have no idea what I’m expected to do.”
Helping her into her jacket, I pointedly ignore her question. “You’re expected to look stunning and listen to me complain about the hors d’oeuvres. The first one, you’ve already got in the bag.” I turn her around, stroking a finger down her exposed neck. “Seriously, Story, you look amazing. If my mother wouldn’t hunt me down like a dog in the street for being any later than I already am,” I lean in to brush my lips against the shell of her ear, “I’d fuck that dress straight off you right now.”
She throws me an exasperated glance, but it’s quickly overtaken by an anxious look. “Tristian, I’m serious. Are you sure this is a good idea? I barely know how to act like a normal woman.”
“Sweetheart.” I cup her cheek, thumb stroking over the soft skin. “You’re not a normal woman.” She’s the woman who shot a man to protect us. She’s the woman who took the brunt of my darkness at a time when I couldn’t find the light, and then she was the woman who forgave me for it. She was the woman who walked through this door and shone so brightly that I haven’t been able to see anything else since. In a moment of unutterable weakness, I quietly confess, “A normal woman wouldn’t make me feel this way.”
She stares back at me, lips parting as if she’s hypnotized. “What way?”
I try to answer. I genuinely do. It’s just the words get caught somewhere in my chest, wound tightly around a fear I can scarcely put a name to. Clearing my throat, I open the door to the chill and the darkness, knowing that she’ll light the way.
“Right now, you’re making me feel late,” I say, rushing her out of the house.
“Wow,” she says, peering owlishly out the window as we approach. “This place is amazing! Do your parents rent it out every year, or do they change venues?” When I don’t answer, she turns to me, taking in my even stare. “Wait.” She whips around to get another look at the manor, jaw dropping. “No way. This isn’t your house.”
The sheer terror on her face as we step out of the car is the only thing that stops me from boasting, which is absolutely something I’m used to doing. It’s not a house. It’s a sprawling property, complete with the mansion and all its trappings. Mercer Manor makes the garish enormity of The Velvet Hideaway look microscopic in comparison.
“Story,” I begin, but she shakes her head.
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Hey, no,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist, “I know this party must be intimidating, but you’ve already met my mother at the game earlier this year. And Dad is a sucker for a beautiful woman, so you’ve already got him on board.” I kiss her on the forehead. “Plus, the girls will be there, and they’ll be so excited to see you.”
The mention of the twins makes some of that hard panic in her eyes soften. “It’s just… I’m sure your parents have heard the gossip and rumors about me from high school. And your dad, at the very least, has a mortifyingly good idea of what goes on between the Lords and their Lady.” She twists the cuff on her wrist. “I don’t want to draw any attention.”
She’s not wrong. My parents have heard the gossip. Hell, my mother has her entire bridge club on speed dial for just this reason, and my father definitely knows the role of a Lady. Intimately. And that doesn’t even go into their thoughts about her mother or the shady side of Daniel’s business.
“They’ll behave.” Because that’s what they do. “You’re my guest. You’re my date.”
She grabs my arm, stopping me. “You’ve never brought a proper date to this party before, have you?”
That’s a minefield, right there. If I tell her truth—that twice in high school, I’d brought my ex, Gen, as a date—then it’d be giving her the wrong idea. Our parents were friends, and it was less of an invitation than a solid expectation. But Genevieve is dead to me, as is that memory.