“High school,” he murmured. “You share more history with him than I’d realized.”
“We grew up together—Boaz, Amelie and me.” Not quite the three musketeers since d'Artagnan hadn’t wanted to bone Porthos. “I had the worst crush on him back then, and he thought it was hilarious. Not exactly the reaction I’d hoped for, you know?”
“And now?” He kept his expression neutral. “Has time and separation changed either of your perspectives?”
“He’s always going to be important to me, but the truth is, I don’t know how much is just falling into old habits and how much is real.” I smothered a grin. “Boaz is a terrible flirt, but he throws his whole heart into loving the person he’s with at the time he’s with them.”
“Ah.” Volkov nodded. “You’re concerned any fling would be brief and the damage to your friendship lasting.”
“Exactly that.” I tapped the back of his hand where it rested on the arm of his chair. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader? You’re the most perceptive guy I’ve ever met.”
“Wouldn’t that be a handy talent? No, I can’t read minds, but I can read people.” He indicated the bangle that kept me from curling up in his lap like a spoiled cat. “Lures are as individual as fingerprints. The worst hunter can feed and release their donor without doing harm with a bare minimum of training, but there is an art to giving a person the thing they want most that facilitates their full surrender, and the blood is always sweeter for their submission.”
Submission was not my kink. Not that I had any kinks I was aware of. But if I did, I felt pretty sure that would not be one. Submission required a level of trust I might never be capable of cultivating with a man. Let alone a vampire.
Admitting he was a master manipulator, in any context, made me hyperaware of exactly how accommodating he had been since meeting me. How much of Danill was I seeing versus what the Volkov heritor had been ordered to show me?
A ripple shuddered through the crowd that saved me from having to formulate the appropriate response after hearing the predator next to me wax poetic on his love of the hunt.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The announcer’s clear, high voice rang through the amphitheater. “It is my pleasure to introduce to you Clarice Woolworth Lawson, Dame Lawson, future Grande Dame of the Society for Post-Death Management.”
I was perched on the edge of my seat without realizing I’d decided to inch closer to the railing.
The woman who strode forward could have passed for Maud from this angle. White hair swept up in a classic twist. Modest gown the color of wet blood with long sleeves and a square neckline. Practical heels that click-clacked, causing her abbreviated train to swish like a serpent’s tail across the floor.
Not until she vanished in the shadows of the stairwell did I remember to breathe.
Nine
People thrust into appalling circumstances either learn to cope or they go mad. I coped with Atramentous through madness. The perpetual darkness, the drugs, the knowledge I would lie curled on that filthy floor until the day I died, beat me down until I almost embraced the hiss of the injector as chemicals spiraled through my bloodstream and swept me away for hours or days or months at a time.
There I learned how to retreat inside my head, and that’s where I huddled during the inauguration.
Blind, I watched the proceedings. Deaf, I heard the vows spoken. Mute, I moved my lips on silent affirmations.
A warm hand on my arm made me flinch hard enough the legs of my chair scraped against the planks.
Volkov withdrew, giving me space to sink back into my body, but gestured toward the box.
The newly minted Grande Dame stood with her arm outstretched. Pointing. She was singling me out. Her mouth formed words, but I couldn’t hear them over the thudding of my pulse in my ears. I looked to Volkov for a translation, but he kept his face carefully neutral while listening to her speech.
“She’s asked you to take the floor.”
I snapped my head toward him. “W-what?”
“It will be fine,” he assured me. “My guards will escort you down and remain in the stairwell.”
“Danill.” For the first time, I used his given name without prompting, and it rushed out on a terrified whimper.
“I have no claim on you.” He took my hand, his thumb sliding over his bangle. “I’m not allowed to stand with you without an understanding between us.”
The temptation to accept his offer of alliance beat under my skin. The only thing that stopped me from sinking to my knees at his feet and begging was the fact he had known this was coming. Whatever she intended, whatever was about to happen, he had strolled in here tonight armed with that knowledge. And he had refused to share it with me.
The same survival instinct that had kept me alive this long roared to wakefulness.
Volkov had already admitted he excelled in giving people what they desired most. Wasn’t that what he had done for me? I craved safety, and he offered me protection in tiny bites that were easy for me to swallow. Guards at the house. An escort to the inauguration. Even the bangle made a powerful statement in that as long as I wore it, our dealings were one hundred percent consensual. For a person who’d had so little choice in her life, it made for a much more potent lure than his own.
All these guards, all for show. What good were they when I would stand on that floor alone?
“I have to do this on my own.” Truth gave the words an extra punch of bravado I didn’t feel. The wrap snagged on my chairback and slid off my shoulders as I stood. I didn’t have it in me to retrieve it, and I waved off the guard when he offered me assistance. That left me holding my bag, and I wasn’t convinced I could manage that either. “Hold my purse?”
“Of course.” He offered a faint smile. “I’ll be right here.”
Putting one foot in front of the other, I exited into the stairwell and climbed down. The guards followed at a safe distance, close enough I could call out for them but not so near they quelled the roiling in my gut over the fact Volkov remained in his seat. A silent ultimatum.
I paused in the shadowed archway, sucked in a breath, and then I was striding forward to greet my fate.
The Grande Dame arranged her expression into a welcoming smile with a benevolent yet sad undertone.
“My darling niece,” she murmured. “I’m so glad you came.”
I curtsied, which seemed more prudent than snapping out, What choice did I have?
“Please join me in welcoming Grier Woolworth, everyone.” Her strong voice projected to every corner of the room. A beat of stunned silence preceded a smattering of confused claps. “Many of you have asked why I chose to ascend to Grande Dame. The reasons are simple. Our justice system is flawed. I witnessed this firsthand five years ago when my niece was convicted of murdering my dear sister, Maud, and I am humbled to stand before you on this momentous night to witness true justice served.”
A profound hush silenced the amphitheater, and my knees quivered beneath my skirts.
To her right, the former Grande Dame, Abayomi Balewa, flinched as if the words had stricken her, but she covered her reaction with a regal nod to her successor and joined my aunt to address the masses.
“There was no public trial held for Grier Woolworth,” Balewa began. “The matter of her guilt was settled behind closed doors out of respect for Maud and her family, and out of necessity due to the privileged nature of her work for the Society.” Her knuckles pushed against her skin where she gripped the balcony railing. “The evidence available at the time convinced us, convinced me, of Grier’s guilt. The heinous nature of the crime demanded our highest punishment, and I meted out a penance of equal severity.”