The blond South African was interesting. He was eyeing the Englishman, Tristan, with extreme curiosity, possibly even something ravenous. Good, Parisa thought, pleased. She didn’t like men like him. He’d want her to shout his name, to scream about his dick, to say things like ‘oh baby yes how do you do it how do you make me feel like this?’ and that was a chore; it rarely ended in anything worthwhile. Rich people like him typically held tight to their wallets, and experience had taught her that did her no good.
Besides, the six of them were equals here. He had nothing to offer her, except perhaps loyalty, but he wasn’t the type to give it easily. He was used to getting his way, which she could see from observing the functions of his thoughts was something he did with at least some level of intention. Parisa Kamali had never wanted to be under anyone’s thumb, and she certainly wouldn’t start now.
The boy, too, was probably useless, which was disappointing. He was obviously wealthy and certainly not unattractive （Nicola’s, she thought with satisfaction, rolling his name around in her head like she might have done with him, whispering it to the inch of skin just below the lobe of his ear） but he obviously tired quickly of things that were too easily won. Not Parisa’s style. The girl he was fixated on was equally easy to discard, though Parisa had been with girls before and rarely ruled them out. She’d spent the better portion of last month, in fact, with a wealthy mortal heiress who’d bought Parisa this outfit, these boots, this purse. People were all the same, really, when you got to the core of them, and Parisa always did. It was Parisa’s business, seeing things she wasn’t supposed to see. In this case, though, this particular girl was unequivocally hopeless. She had a boyfriend she seemed to actually like. She had good intentions, too, which were the most unfortunate. Always indicative of someone not easily put to use. The girl, Libby, was so good she was no good at all. Parisa moved on from her quickly.
Reina, the naturalist with the nose ring, was easily the most threatening presence in the room. She radiated raw power, which in Parisa’s experience was the mark of someone who shouldn’t be messed with. Parisa put her in a mental box marked ‘Do Not Disturb’ and resolved to stay out of her way.
Then there was Tristan, the Englishman, whom Parisa liked within moments of slipping unobtrusively into his thoughts. There was a festering anger in his head, beating dully like a tribal drum. It was obvious he didn’t know why he was here, but now that he was he wanted to punish everyone in the room, himself included. Parisa liked that. She found it interesting, or at least relatable. She watched Tristan notice everything that was off in the room—all the illusions everyone else had used to hide various parts of themselves, which varied from Libby’s little spot of concealer on a stress blemish hidden by her fringe to the false golden-flecked tips of Callum’s hair—and marveled a little at his instant dismissal.
He was unimpressed.
He’d change his mind, Parisa thought, if she decided she wanted him to.
Which wasn’t to say she did, necessarily. Again, there was nothing in it for her to pursue someone who provided no leverage. Perhaps the most beneficial connection was in fact the Caretaker, Atlas. Parisa was already calculating how much work it would take to win Atlas Blakely’s interests when the door opened behind them, and she and the others turned.
“Ah, Dalton,” said Atlas. A narrow-hipped, elegantly lean man—perhaps a few years older than Parisa and dressed in a clean, starched Oxford with lines as precise as the sleek part of his raven-black hair—nodded in reply.
“Atlas,” he said with a low voice, his gaze falling on Parisa.
Yes, Parisa thought. Yes, you.
He thought she was beautiful. Easy, everyone did. He tried not to look at her breasts. It wasn’t really working. She smiled at him and his thoughts raced, then went blank. He was momentarily silent, and then Atlas cleared his throat.
“Everyone, Dalton Ellery,” Atlas said, and Dalton nodded curtly, looking over Parisa’s head to glance with a somewhat forced smile at the others in the room.
“Welcome,” he said. “Congratulations on being tapped for entry to the Alexandrian Society.” His voice was smooth and buttery despite his posture being slightly stiff, his broad shoulders—the result of considerable craftsmanship, for which Parisa was certain his shirts were specially tailored—appearing to lock uncomfortably in place. He was clean-shaven, meticulous. He looked fanatical about cleanliness and she wanted to press her tongue to the nape of his artfully tapered neck. “I’m sure you all understand by now what an honor it is to be here.”