Page 30 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
“A lot of good that did,” he says darkly. “If he hurt Avery in the end.”
“But why would he give us his IP address? Why would he send us that message?”
“Of course he wants us to know. He’s all alone in the middle of a fucking fortress with no one but the little orderlies and nurses and patients to bat around with his claws. I told Gabriel that place couldn’t hold him. No place can.”
“He’s showing us that he has access to the internet,” I realize out loud. “He’s taunting us.”
“More than that, sweet Penny. He’s summoning us.”
Urgency beats against my ribs, because I already sense his refusal in the air. “Then we have to go. If he’s behind Avery’s disappearance, we have to go and make him tell us where she is. Or what if she’s there with him? If he has the ability to send messages like that, he can do anything. Even kidnap her. We have to leave.”
“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” Damon says.
Shock holds me breathless. “What?”
“I learned to ignore my father a long time ago. It’s called survival, sweetheart, and I’m not about to stop now. Not even for a long-lost sister I barely know.”
“How can you talk like that about her?”
“She made her choice when she kept him alive. I warned her. I told her and Gabriel exactly what would happen, and look, here we are. Surprise.”
It’s both shocking and painful to see him be so casual about the very real danger she’s in. I think I’m finally seeing the fabled Damon Scott who took over the criminal underworld of Tanglewood. This is the man people fear. The one they plead with and hide from and threaten like an animal backed into a corner. The man who owns loan markers for some of the most powerful people in the city, who owns strip clubs and dirty businesses. He didn’t get to this place on his half-smile and sharp suits alone. There’s something sinister in him, and I’m witnessing it now.
Anger warms me despite his chilly words. “Then I’ll go.”
His gaze lowers to my body, a long look that covers every shadow, every curve. My hands barely cover my breasts, between my legs. Most of me is exposed, and he makes sure I feel it. He makes sure I feel how powerless I am in this moment—that I can’t help Avery, that I can’t even help myself.
“No, Penny. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Chapter Twenty
The beat starts up at nine p.m., which seems early. I don’t know how invitations are handled for wild sex parties—an X-rated vellum strip with calligraphy? A secret Facebook group for the rich and depraved? However it happens, people spill out of cabs and black limos, dressed in sparkly clothes and shiny leather that will no doubt come off soon. Last night the street had been clear; tonight the Den is the host of the town.
There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, because this party is pointed.
It’s a message as real as the slip of paper with a number scribbled on it. One that says Damon Scott answers to no one, not even his father. Especially not his father.
It says he isn’t going to help Avery, as plain as day.
Not an especially hard cipher, this one. A sex-drenched fuck you.
Hiro leans against the banister in the darkened hallway, watching the crowd mill around. I join her, leaning my elbows on carved wood. Most people still have their clothes on. They’re dancing, drinking. Laughing. It’s hard to imagine feeling that kind of reckless joy. It’s too foreign to even want it, like watching a flock of birds fly overhead. They’re beautiful, but I know better than to fly.
“I’m afraid to ask,” I say softly. “Are you here to keep me in the room?”
“My instructions are to keep anyone else out.”
“So if I go downstairs…”
“I would follow you. At a discreet distance, of course.”
I look down at her clothes, the same black shirt and blazer, the same utilitarian jeans and black boots. She will fit into this crowd of glitz and glamour about as well me.
My Smith College T-shirt and black yoga pants are variations of what I packed in my suitcase. There aren’t any party dresses or slinky skirts.
Walking downstairs feels a little like being Cinderella, except without the fairy godmother. I’m showing up in rags and chimney soot. Bare feet instead of a golden-white carriage.
People stop their conversation when they see me. They stop laughing.
Which is ironic, because I probably look pretty funny.
When I reach the ground floor, there’s actually a little crowd formed, waiting for me. They show no intention of moving, openly gawking, blocking my path. Until Hiro steps behind me. Whatever expression she wears on her face, it makes everyone take a step back. Then another.
That’s how I plow a path between people, to where Damon’s makeshift throne was the first night. Sure enough he’s holding court there again, reclined in a large leather armchair while women and men dance around him. No matter that they’re beautiful. Damon looks almost bored.
