The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(36)

“He did?” asked Tristan and Séverin at the same time.

“I did.”

The three turned to the doorway. Hypnos leaned against the entrance. He held up his mangled mnemo bug, a sign that for the time being, at least, he was not recording anything.

Hypnos grinned at Tristan. “Ah! I used you as bait!” He walked forward, with his hand outstretched. “How do you do?”

Tristan crossed his arms. “I should set one of my spiders on you. They’re very venomous, you know.”

Hypnos looked around the room. “Are they present?”

Tristan faltered. “Well, no, not exactly, this is when Goliath eats, you see, and—”

Séverin cut him off. “Why are you here?”

“We’re in business together, are we not?” asked Hypnos. His gaze swept over the room as he tilted his head to one side. “Where’s that handsome historian?”

“On business,” said Séverin tersely. “Which is the only topic I am willing to discuss with you.”

“Ah, yes. Business. So. Were you successful in finding the catalogue coin?”

Séverin eyed him for a moment. Then, he nodded.

“We have the exact coordinates for the Horus Eye in House Kore’s collection. Now, we just need the invitation.”

“My domain, naturally.”

“And I’ll need a guest list and the name of the private security organization the matriarch of House Kore hires for her event.”

“Done!” said Hypnos, clapping his hands. “Is this what teamwork is like? How … hierarchical.” Hypnos winked at Laila. “Hello, lover.”

“Ex-lover,” she said, a touch fondly.

Hypnos reminded her of Enrique. If Enrique’s wits had been fed on champagne and bitter smoke for the better part of a decade. Séverin’s face darkened. A small muscle in his jaw twitched, as if he were chewing down an imaginary clove to calm his temper. He stalked forward, placing himself between Laila and Hypnos.

“You and I should talk privately,” he said to Hypnos.

“I’ll come for tea tomorrow.”

“There’s no need for you to come to the hotel.”

Hypnos’s shoulders dropped, his voice pitched like a child’s. “But I want to!” He grinned and spoke normally again. “And I always do what I want. I shall see you tomorrow.”

Hypnos blew Tristan two kisses, which Tristan pretended to squash under his heel. Then, Hypnos pushed past Séverin and bent over Laila’s hand.

“I shall keep your identity secret, L’énigme. And before I forget, I must tell you I adored your costume. So shiny. I’m rather tempted to see if it will fit me.”

Hypnos glided out the door. Once he was gone, Tristan’s shoulders dropped, and he released his breath.

“I really don’t want him at the hotel.”

For a moment, a cold, hollow look flickered on his face. Laila knew how protective Tristan was of Séverin, but she’d never seen him look like that. A moment later, his expression melted into a warm smile.

He beamed. “Oh, I liked your costume too, Laila. You looked beautiful.”

Laila bowed, then glanced at Séverin. He’d taken unusual care with how he dressed. The color of his silk pocket square matched the silvery shade of his scar. On the second button of his shirt, he’d pinned an elaborate ouroboros brooch, one that she knew dug painfully into his skin because he’d told her. His shoes were scuffed hand-me-downs from his father, the long-dead patriarch of House Vanth. Laila’s chest tightened. Today, Séverin had dressed in subtle pain. Laila recognized it because she did the same thing to herself every night when she took off her clothes, splaying her fingers against the long scar down her back as she tried to read her own body. Sometimes the pain was a reminder of where she was … who she was … and what she wanted to be.

Séverin’s eyes flashed knowingly to hers, and Laila forced herself to smile wryly.

“Tristan and Hypnos admired my outfit,” she said, resting her hand on her hip. “No compliment from you?”

“I didn’t have a chance to look,” he said. His smile didn’t meet his eyes. “Too busy avoiding certain death. It’s terribly distracting, you know.”

He could say what he wanted, but she hadn’t forgotten how he’d watched her yesterday. How still he stood. How his eyes darkened, leaving only a halo of violet. Men had looked at her a thousand ways and times, and none of them had made her feel as she did yesterday. The almost-painful exquisiteness of being unveiled by a glance. It made her feel aware of everything about her—skin stretched over bone, silk clinging to her limbs, her breath heating the air. The kind of awareness that makes one feel alive.

It terrified her.

It was the same reason why after that one night, she knew it had to end there. There was no point entertaining that awareness when, in less than a year, she wouldn’t even exist. But she still remembered. She remembered that she’d reached for him first, and he was the first to break it off.

Laila had to leave.

“The driver is waiting for me,” she said.

On her way out, she gazed over her shoulder at Séverin.

“Be sure to appear very sad at L’Eden. After all, if you really were my lover, you should be utterly devastated both by my public dismissal of you and by my marvelous costume.”