Burn (Pure #3)(89)

Partridge and this woman, this stranger, wave and then whisper to each other, smiling.

Pressia grabs Ven’s jacket. “What happened? Who is she?”

“Iralene,” Ven says. “Willux chose her for Partridge.”

“But…Lyda…and…”

Ven shakes his head, and she knows that it’s not just the pregnancy that’s a secret, but Lyda too.

“I want to talk to Partridge. I want to talk to him now.” Pressia’s furious. What the hell is he doing? Lyda’s pregnant! It’s his child, and he’s still doing what his daddy’s told him to do?

“I’m trying to get you in close; then you two can maybe find a quiet place—”

“I don’t care about finding a quiet place,” Pressia says, and she heads into the crowd. She hears Ven telling her to wait, but she keeps going—around tables, cutting across the dance floor, and making a direct line for Partridge.

The bride has been pulled away by some other guests. Partridge is talking to an older man with a lean, tan face. How do you get tan in a place with no sun?

Pressia stops in front of them.

It takes a few seconds for Partridge to notice her, but when he does, his face lights up. “Pressia!” he says, as if this is a happy surprise.

And for some reason, it’s his joy that infuriates her the most. He hands his drink off to a man nearby, leans forward, open armed, ready to give her a hug, and before she even thinks about it, she lifts her hand to slap him, but her wrist is caught.

The tan-faced man has a firm grip on her, pulling her in close.

“Who the hell are you?” Pressia says. “Let go of me.”

“I’m Foresteed. Nice to meet you, Pressia.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“It’s not hard to recognize a well-known wretch like you. You think those bandages are fooling me?”

“Ease up, Foresteed,” Partridge says, and his grip loosens, and he lets go. “How did you get here? Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His cheeks have flushed a deep red as if she had slapped him. He rubs his hands together. “We need to talk.”

She then notices that all of his fingers are there. She reaches out and grabs both hands, wondering for a second if she’s misremembered which pinky Our Good Mother cut off. But both of his hands are intact. His pinkies are both perfectly formed. “How? Why?” She can barely speak.

He pulls his hands from her and looks around the enormous hall, and she can see it dawning on him—how this must look to her. “I can explain,” he says. “I’m doing the right things here. It’s just… It just doesn’t…”

“You make me sick.” Her voice is so choked with anger that it comes out as a whisper.

“We’ve got to get her locked down,” Foresteed says. “For Christ’s sake, she’s contaminated. How the hell did she get in here?” Foresteed looks around the crowded banquet hall.

“They’re still killing us out there. And you don’t even care. Look at you,” Pressia says.

The bride, as if sensing the tension, walks over quickly. “What’s going on?”

“It’s okay, Iralene,” Partridge says. “Just give us a minute.” He turns back to Pressia. “Look, I had to marry Iralene! You don’t understand what was happening here!”

Iralene looks at Partridge, hurt by this comment. She says, “I want to know who this is!”

“I’m Pressia. Where’s Lyda?”

“Lyda couldn’t come,” Iralene says. “Why would she even want to?”

“Screw you!” Pressia says to Iralene, whose face instantly stiffens. “And you too, Partridge. You’re worse than your father. You know that? At least he had real ambition.”

Foresteed whispers. “Let me escort her out.”

A young man around Partridge’s age pushes his way into the tight knot. “Is this Pressia?” he says.

“Not now, Arvin,” Partridge says.

“I want to talk to you,” Arvin says to Pressia. “I can help—”

Partridge raises his hands. “Just everyone wait…”

“I want to see Lyda,” Pressia says. “Where is she?”

Partridge turns around and calls, “Beckley!” A guy in a tux shows up. He’s tall and broad with close-cropped hair. “Take Pressia to Lyda’s place.” He looks at Pressia. “I trust Beckley. You’re in good hands.”

“Good hands? Who the hell are you, Partridge?”

“I’m still the same person. Have faith in me.”

Pressia shakes her head.

“I’ll find you at Lyda’s. We’ll talk then. I can explain, Pressia. I can.”

Iralene wraps her arm in his. “Beckley has to give the toast,” she says.

Beckley raises his eyebrows.

“Just go,” Partridge says.

Beckley starts to escort Pressia away, but Iralene says, “Wait! Beckley’s supposed to deliver the toast!”

Pressia walks on a few more paces but then whips around. She can’t help it. She’s furious. “I stood up for you,” Pressia says, her voice shaking. “But they were right all along. You’re weak.”