Page 6 of Honey Cut
Mark couldn’t possibly know. Despite Sedge knowing, despite the way he’d saidmuch to discuss,on the dock.
But then what else had he meant?
I’m still trying to squeeze a feeling of certainty out of this latest turn of affairs when I hear a knock on the frame of my door.
I turn to see Mark, his blue suit still smooth and crisp, even though it’s now the afternoon and he’s been in the summer wind and Manhattan traffic.
“Tristan,” he says, and my name in his voice lifts goose bumps along my arms. I’m grateful he can’t see them underneath my own suit. “Come here for a minute. I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
The certainty vanishes, and panic rushes in, cold and tingling. My lips are buzzing as I nod and follow him out to the main living area of the penthouse, feeling like I’m on a patrol run in Carpathia and not in a crisply minimalist space overlooking Central Park.
Isolde is standing by the window, her hair the color of gleaming bone and soft as silk around her face as she stares down at the park. She’s wearing all white today, a bodysuit and trousers, already looking like a bride. The white makes her glow.
Mark takes a seat on a low leather sofa, stretching his arm along the back. There’s a glass of gin on the rocks on the table in front of him.
I heroically ignore the pert curves of Isolde’s breasts in her bodysuit and the way Mark’s suit trousers pull over the hard muscles of his thighs. I keep my face on his as I stand next to the sofa, my hands tucked neatly behind my back.
Does Mark look like he knows? Is that anger simmering in his eyes as he looks between Isolde and me?
I’ll take the blame. It was my fault anyway, what happened on the yacht. If I’d only stayed away from her, had more control. Found a way not to kiss her tear-salted lips, not to taste the wet place between her thighs.
If only I’d beenstronger—but God, how could I have been? Isolde Laurence under a dark sky, spattered with sea spray, splintered and humiliated by the same man who’d splintered and humiliated me.
Isolde Laurence, who knew how wonderful it felt when the splintering came from a man like Mark Trevena.
If Isolde is worried that Mark knows, that this is the beginning of everything unraveling, she doesn’t show it. Her back is straight, her arms crossed, and her hands cupped elegantly over each elbow. In profile, she is graceful and aloof. It’s easy to forget that she wields a knife like it’s as natural as breathing. That she wakes up in the middle of the night with choked screams in her throat.
“So,” Mark says, his gaze moving to me and then Isolde again. I wish I could read his face, his eyes. I wish I knew what to brace for. “The engagement party is this weekend, and it must be a success.”
It is so far from what I expected him to say that I nearly buckle to the floor. There’s no way, no way at all that I could be this lucky.
“Of course,” continues Mark, “the party is to celebrate our coming union, and as long as you’re happy with it, Isolde, then I’ll consider it a success. So everything else is of little?—”
“Tristan knows,” Isolde interrupts, finally turning toward us. The ruby engagement ring winks on her hand, sending red beams dancing across the room. “I told him the truth.”
Mark’s fingers lift once from the back of the sofa and then settle. His head turns, but not all the way, before he says, “Is that so?”
Isolde’s gaze is steady. “I was surprised you hadn’t told him yourself, actually. He’ll be with us constantly. Did you think he wouldn’t see that we weren’t a love match? That this whole charade is engineered to benefit you and my family?”
“We must be careful, my bride,” Mark says. “The more people who know, the more danger thecharadeis in.”
Isolde doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react at all.
Finally, Mark relaxes. “I agree with you that eventually Tristan would have figured it out. And you are good at keeping secrets, aren’t you, Tristan?”
He doesn’t look over at me as he speaks, which is a very good thing because I’m keeping more secrets than I’d like to right now and I’m worried every single one of them is visible in my face.
“Yes, sir,” I manage.
“Well, then. We’re settled.” He leans forward to get his glass and then sets it to his lips, his eyes on Isolde as he drinks, like he’s not finished studying her.
For her part, she doesn’t look away.
I glance to the hot city outside the glass. It hurts to look at the two of them right now. I miss them both. I want them both.
“So Tristan,” Mark says, now looking down at the drink cradled in his hand, “you should know that this party is the beginning of Isolde and me as a public couple. We’ve had something of a debut at Lyonesse, years ago, but this is our inauguration into certain circles of society. I’m sure you’re aware, via Goran, about how tight I’ll need security to be—we have several high-profile guests coming. And undoubtedly, Isolde and I will need to circulate separately, and I want your eyes on Isolde when mine can’t be.”
My eyes are on Isolde far too much as it is, but I manage to sound professional when I say, “Of course, sir.”
