Grace and Fury (Grace and Fury #1)(49)

“Wait! Serina!” he said again, scrambling to his feet.

Serina had imagined her first kiss as the start of something, not the end.

She shouted over her shoulder as she ran, “They call me Grace now.”





TWENTY-FOUR



NOMI


NOMI STEPPED ONTO the boat, the belled skirt of her brilliant red dress fanning out in the brisk sea air. A thick gold belt cinched tight around her waist and matched her golden sandals and the long, dangling earrings Angeline had procured for her.

The handmaiden had dusted her cheeks with golden powder and stained her lips red. It was a dramatic look, more striking than she usually wore, and for the first time, Nomi felt like she looked the part of a Grace.

But she would always be a rebel.

The note to Renzo burned against the skin of her breast. She’d tucked it into her bodice while Angeline was in the washroom. Asa had a contact outside the palazzo he would give it to; now she needed to figure out how to steal a private moment with him on a boat filled with revelers and the Superior’s men.

Nomi glided toward an empty spot along the rail, searching the crowd for Asa. The Superior’s ship was unlike any she’d seen before. It was moored on the ocean side of the palazzo, as it was much too large for the narrow canals of the city. Its wide deck was strung with lights and little tinkling bells. The railings were polished wood, intricately carved with mermaids and leaping fish.

The top deck was open, with fluttering swaths of white silk strung above. Near the stern, two wrought-iron lifts transported guests to and from the level beneath. Men in white livery operated the ropes and pulleys, ensuring each guest a smooth ride. Other servants wove through the crowd holding trays of fluted glasses and finger foods. In the center of the deck, a small group of musicians played, and around them the Superior’s Graces danced with men he’d chosen to reward or curry favor with. The delegation from Azura was dressed in light blue.

Nomi reached the open stretch of rail and leaned against it, turning her attention out to sea. The sun had just set, and fingers of light still clung to the edge of the world. Above, stars were winking to life.

When she turned around, she noticed Asa on the other side of the boat. His eyes caught hers immediately. Warmth spread from her cheeks to her stomach.

A man sidled up beside him and said something. Asa’s mouth moved in answer, but he didn’t stop looking at Nomi.

A figure blocked her line of sight, and a whisper of a voice blew ice into her veins. “Good evening, Nomi.”

The Superior.

Nomi’s lungs froze. She curtsied, and suddenly, all her former awkwardness came roaring back. She was a lowly handmaiden again, out of place and ungainly in the glittering assemblage. With a treasonous note stuffed down her dress.

“Ines tells me your training is progressing,” the Superior said. He took her hand and held it tightly, his bony fingers like iron bars. He pulled her arm up and indicated that he wanted her to spin. She turned slowly, her hand twisting in his grasp, making her feel even more at his mercy.

His scent—orange oil and antiseptic—choked her. The disease that was slowly killing him had thinned his face and grayed his hair, but it hadn’t extinguished the icy flames of his eyes.

“I suppose I can see what my son finds intriguing about you.” He pulled her closer, cornering her. Nomi’s throat tightened. Her fingers tingled in his grip. His nails bit into her skin. “You’ve a spirit begging to be broken.”

She couldn’t stand it. She yanked her hand free.

The Superior’s eyes widened. His hand slid around her waist, and for the first time she was happy for her corset because it felt like armor, a barrier between them. His other hand encircled her wrist, so tightly she couldn’t pull free. It didn’t matter if Malachi wanted to tame her or not; the Superior did. And he would, whenever he chose.

Even if she belonged to his son.

After a short, excruciating dance, the Superior released her and inclined his head. Nomi gave a shaky curtsy. It wasn’t the boat’s rocking that made her legs suddenly unsteady.

“Dance with Signor Flavia,” he ordered. Another set of hands gripped her. A barrel-chested man twirled her across the deck. His sweat-damp chest pressed against hers, and his wine-soaked breath clogged her lungs.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice said over her shoulder. For a split second, she thought it was Asa. But it was his brother.

Signor Flavia stopped spinning her. “Your Eminence,” he said, bowing.

Another set of hands drew Nomi away, as if she were a pipe passed between friends. But the Heir didn’t dance with her. He led her to the railing, where the sea breeze swept across her heated cheeks.

Malachi was so much larger than Asa. Muscled, where Asa was wiry. Imposing, where Asa was friendly. “You’re shaking. Does the boat unsettle you?” Malachi asked.

Nomi was afraid to look him in the eye. What if he could see her deception? Her hatred?

“I am overheated from dancing, Your Eminence,” she said.

“Your hands are cold.”

She pulled them from his, galvanized into looking at him. “Are they?” she said, her voice tight.

His short brown hair was freshly cut. He wore a navy suit with thin lines of gold thread running through it. The sharp planes of his face, his dark eyes, told her nothing.