The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(24)

Séverin rolled his shoulders. His fingers left damp impressions on Hypnos’s letter. He crumpled it in his fist. He knew what he was going to do. What he needed to do. As he walked out the door of his study, a phantom ache curled between his shoulder blades.

As if they craved the weight of wings.



* * *



THROUGH THE FROSTED glass door of the kitchen, he saw their shapes crowded around the high-top counters. He heard the chime of bone china, silver spoons hitting tea saucers. The crisp snap of cookies. He could picture them with perfect clarity. Zofia carefully cutting her cookie in half, then dipping each half into the tea. Enrique demanding to know why she was torturing the cookies. Tristan scoffing that tea was hot, watered-down leaves and “Laila, is there any hot chocolate?” Laila. Laila, who moved like a sylph among them, watching them with those eyes that said she knew their worst secrets and still forgave them. Laila, who always had sugar in her hair.

He could sense all of them, and it terrified him.

He placed his hand on the doorknob. The oath tattoos on his right hand glared back at him. They might owe him their service. But he was the one bound to them.

He was the one who would always be left behind. Soon, Zofia’s debt would be paid off and leave her wealthy enough to start a new life. Soon, Enrique would join the inner circle of Filipino visionaries and move out of L’Eden. Soon, Laila would leave too. When she offered her services to him and trusted him with her story—as he had trusted her with his—she told him there was an object she was searching for, and she would go wherever that search took her.

Which left Tristan. The only one who would stay of his own free will.

But what if they acquired the Horus Eye …

Hypnos would be bound to perform the test, and this time, no one would cheat him. House Vanth would be resurrected. As patriarch, he could give them more than just the connections of the rich. He could get Zofia’s sister into medical school; give Enrique access and intelligence for his Ilustrados; help Laila find the ancient book she searched for; keep his promise to Tristan.

He could give them more than just something to tide them over until the next acquisition. He could give them enough to stay.

The four of them stared when he entered. Judging from the empty teacup, they’d been expecting him for a while. After a long moment, Laila poured him tea. Even with her hair in front of her face, he knew she was smiling. He hated that he knew that. Two years ago, he hadn’t thought such things were possible.

Back then, Laila had just started working at the Palais as his spy and in the kitchens as a pastry chef. One day she barged into his study, her hair streaked white with flour, carrying a glossy, jewel-bright fruit tart in her hand. Already she’d charmed half the staff and secured more acquisitions than he’d ever been able to do on his own. That she spent most of her free time wandering the library or the kitchens wouldn’t have bothered him if she hadn’t kept trying to force her creations on him or spouting her opinions on every little thing when he was trying to work. Worse was that she wanted nothing in return. She would leave cakes on his desk, and if he tried to pay her, she’d smack his hand.

“Try it, try it,” she had insisted that day, pushing back his chair and holding out a piece.

He’d been too startled by the unexpected way she kept manifesting—like a dream recurring when it was just forgotten—that he didn’t have time to say, “I don’t want any damn sweets.” Her fingers parted his lips. Flavors turned incandescent on his tongue. He might have moaned. He couldn’t remember anymore.

“Taste that?” she had whispered. “There’s zested yuzu from the orchards, instead of lemon rind, and vanilla bean, instead of only vanilla extract. The glaze is hibiscus jam I made myself. Not some boring apricot. What do you think? Doesn’t it taste like a dream?”

That was the first time he realized he could feel her smile. Like light pressing against closed lids. He blinked, opening his eyes, watching how her lips pulled into a grinning crescent. Since then, whenever she smiled, he remembered the flavor of that fruit tart, the tang of hibiscus and soft vanilla. Unexpected and sweet.

Enrique cleared his throat, and Séverin shook himself.

“Finally,” said Enrique. He popped the last cookie in his mouth. “Consider that a penalty for showing up so late,” he said with his mouth full.

Séverin pulled up a chair, feeling their eyes on him. Of course, Laila was the first to speak.

“Séverin … what are we going to do? Enrique told us what happened back there.”

Enrique blushed a guilty red and took a well-timed gulp of tea.

“You’re bound to Hypnos,” said Laila.

He flexed his fingers, watching his scar stretch.

“What happens next is not up to me,” he said. “This won’t be like our acquisitions of the past. It’ll be even more dangerous. And if you choose a different path, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll deactivate the oath tattoos and pay you accordingly.”

Séverin didn’t trust himself to look at them until he heard Enrique’s resigned sigh.

“I’m in,” said Enrique, after a long moment.

“Me too,” said Laila.

Zofia nodded her assent.

Tristan swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the counter. He took the longest to raise his gaze to Séverin and nod.