Page 97 of Red Masquerade

I wasn’t sure if Dixon was wary of Vince and the others because of their species or because of something else. Dixon had never shown any indication of losing control as a vampire, never seemed a threat to Flora or me, and in fact always cared more for our safety in the evenings, like our own personal bodyguard. He was so against Flora finding out, wanting to keep her as far from this world as seemed possible. He’d hidden his nature from me this long, was still hiding it from the woman he supposedly loved.

But was he in on whatever was going on too? Wasthatwhy he was so concerned?

I stood, my limbs becoming jittery from just sitting. A chill ran down my arms, and I wished I had grabbed one of those sweatersfrom my wardrobe. While I walked away, I felt Sinclair’s stare follow me, smelled the tobacco from his cigarette,

The view from the window was the gardens. It was early evening, the sun making its way toward the horizon, not yet having hit the equinox. The cypress trees swayed, their blue-hued leaves stretching toward the clouds. From above, all the colors of the gardens were in view—pink and red and bright green bushes, the glowing white of flowers that would soon bloom in the evening darkness. The dark green hedges lining the stone wall boundary. The wrought-iron gate. The brilliant fountains at the center, one with a peculiar marble nymph at the center, who seemed to shine in the dimming sunlight, like she was about to come to life.

I ignored the point at which I felt Sinclair’s view—on the back of my neck—and leant against the windowpanes, their glass already appearing melted with age.

“I do not mean to offend,” Sinclair said, misunderstanding my frustration, the lowness of his voice edged with humor. But he remained on the couch. “I understand he is a friend of yours—”

“What is going on here?” I turned to him fully, the window at my back.

“Here?” He looked around the room like he was missing something. “We’re speaking.”

“No.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What is going on that I don’t know about?”

A raised black brow. “Clarify.”

“Don’t insult me,” I scoffed. I made to leave the room, feeling heat in my ears. “If no one wants to speak plainly, then I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Sinclair sighed. “Ask Vince. Lest he behead me for revealing too much.”

Thirty-Three

That evening, I stood in a silk robe and nothing else while I waited for Vince to return.

Outside, it was dusk, only a deep pink lingering above the tree line, near blood-red. The house was quiet, and I hadn’t seen anyone since my talk with Sinclair. My dinner had been laid out on the tea table before I had made my way into the room, and I ate alone, only the soft breeze from the open window to accompany me.

But I still felt unsettled, something not sitting right within me.

Sinclair’s apprehension didn’t sit well. And neither did the fact that Vince had been orchestrating our reunion for the better part of a year. He could have just found me—gone to a dinner party himself one evening while I was off in the city—and it would have been just as joyous. I still would’ve understood his absence, his change.

But involving others, playing this game of secrets—there was a nagging voice in the back of my mind, the words all jumbled up together, but warning me just the same.

Maybe Dixon’s fear had some truth to it.

When the bedroom door opened, I was facing the window with my hands on my hips. I didn’t even have time to turn around before his arms wound around my waist, having crossed the room in less than a second.

“You’re waiting for me?” he asked, sounding amused, as his lips found my ear.

My hands found his, linking our fingers. “What else is there to do?”

He hummed. “Perhaps I’ll take you out on the Sound tomorrow.”

Like a pet, needing to be entertained and placated all day.

I turned in his arms. He was grinning down at me, his dark red hair slicked back, still wearing his jacket. He peppered my cheek, my neck with kisses.

Sighing, I pulled away, bracing my hands on his arms. “I need to speak to you.”

“Of course,” he said, separating himself from me just enough to bring me toward the bed. “Anything.”

I sat upon the duvet, the robe falling open at my hips. He pretended not to notice, slipping off his jacket and loosening his tie.

I had worked myself up in my mind, waiting for him. There was a flutter in my belly, nervous to say the words. I bit my lip. “Where do you get your money?”

He looked at me and laughed, relieved. “My money?” Throwing the tie toward the couch, it landed on the floor in a heap, along with his jacket and shoes. “I earned it.” He shrugged. “Does it matter?”