“It will not do to have your mate see you this way.” She leaned in, close to his ear. “Don’t push me, Casworon. You know better than to push me.”
He turned to look at her. She was still a very beautiful female: dark hair like his own, green cat’s eyes. But the soul is seen on the skin whether it wants to be or not. In an expression. A gesture. And Lady Kayna’s soul was an ugly, tortured one.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” he said evenly. “You will have your alliance. I only ask that this charade be done swiftly. I have plans for the rest of the evening.”
She sneered at him. “Retiring to your cottage?”
“I am.”
Her lip curled. “Like father, like son.”
Cas hadn’t taken much time to understand his parents’ relationship over the years. Like most children, he was consumed with himself. But clearly, the union had not only been an arranged one, but a contemptuous one. It was curious then, he mused, turning back to face the ballroom and his guests, that Lady Kayna would want the same misery for her son.
The orchestra conductor caught his eye then and raised a brow. With his father gone, it was Casworon’s duty to open the ball. He was Master. He was Lord. He nodded, then sat back and watched the stream of males and females move onto the floor. The first dance was a waltz, each couple more or less performing for his pleasure. But Cas’s attention had already been diverted to the small parade of females and their escorts coming toward him. It was time. The shackles already felt too tight. His gaze moved over them. Which one was she? This mate who would no doubt end up hating him, as his mother hated his father.
One was dressed in pink and pale yellow, while another was white like a bride, and yet another in red to tempt his Incubus, no doubt. The first stepped forward, and introductions were made to the lilt of the waltz.
“Master Trevanion,” the page to his left called out. “May I present the Lady Beatrice of London.”
Lady Beatrice was small with fine curves and a wide smile. She dipped low into a curtsey before him, then glanced up through thick lashes. Her eyes were a beautiful dark brown, and deep as he imagined his own to be. He inclined his head, then waited for her to move off and another to take her place.
“My lord, Lady Neda of Wales.”
This was the Nephilim in the red dress. Perfect height, perfect figure, sharp eyes and a sharper smile. She hated him, hated this. He didn’t blame her.
“Master Trevanion,” the page continued. “The sisters, Brachia and Ornathe of Edinburgh.”
Pink Dress and White Dress respectively, both trying to win his attention. But too caught up in their competition, neither managed to truly connect with him at all.
“My lord,” came the page’s call. “The Lady Gemma of Manchester.”
A female stepped forward, and instantly Cas knew this was his mate to be. She was his physical type exactly. What he’d always requested: dark hair to the waist, dark eyes, full mouth, small, high breasts, and an air of reverence. His mother had done her due diligence. He could most certainly fuck the Lady Gemma into oblivion tonight and for many nights to come. His demon was more than game. He looked her over darkly, inspecting her, and she didn’t wilt. Instead, she gave him a hungry, compliant smile. She was ready. She was perfect. She was exactly what her position required her to be.
So why was his cock already bored?
The waltz ended then, and a round of applause sounded.
Get it over with. The sooner you agree, the sooner you can get the bloody hell out of here. Perhaps the Lady Gemma would like to join you. Be your number eleven.
The applause slowly died down, and a hush fell over the crowd. Cas lifted his gaze, passed the lovely yet perhaps too eager Gemma, and surveyed the dance floor. What was happening? Only a few guests were chatting in small groups dotting the perimeter, but everyone else was staring up at the top of the stairs.
“The Lady Gemma would like to dance, Casworon,” his mother was saying at his side.
Cas ignored her. His demon had pulled his attention to the top of the stairs where a tall female with long, blond curls stood. She was alone, yet comfortably, confidently so. She had a small waist and large breasts, and her dress was no doubt as pretty and as enticing as all the other dresses in the room. But Cas hardly noticed what she was wearing. His gaze—and that of his demon—was focused entirely on her face. Her expression, actually. What was it? Raw, almost innocent excitement coupled with the fearlessness of someone who needed nothing from anyone? Who was here for her own enjoyment alone?
And then the scent hit him—her scent—and everything and everyone around him ceased to exist.
Like a predator, a wolf on the moors, a drained Incubus, he jerked to his feet and headed for the stairs. As he went, he heard rumblings behind him.
“Who is that?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know, my lady.”
She clicked her tongue. “Find out.”