The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(58)

A low murmur of approval chased through the crowd when she walked on the stage. When she performed at the Palais, her favorite moment was stepping onto the stage before the lights rose: the adrenaline fizzing in her veins, the darkness of the theater that made her feel as if she’d only just burst into existence. But here, she felt like something held beneath glass. Trapped. Between her breasts, the key to the library felt like a chip of ice. She scanned the crowd. Before each seat was a basket of rose petals to be thrown upon the performer at the conclusion of their entertainment.

The music keyed up.

Even before the light fell on her, she felt Séverin before she saw him. A space of cold in a warm room. The lights cast his eyes into shadow. All she could see were his long legs stretched in front of him, his chin on his palm like a bored emperor. She knew that pose. Memory stole her breath. She thought back to that evening … on her birthday … when she’d felt buzzed with a daring she almost never indulged. She’d cornered him in his study, more intoxicated by the way he’d looked at her than she had been from any champagne. Séverin hadn’t gotten her a birthday present, and so she demanded a kiss that turned into something more …

Laila could feel the moment he became aware of her on the stage. The sudden stiffness of his body.

He’d never seen her dance before … and instantly something changed within her. It was how she felt before she always performed, as if her blood now glittered.

She needed him to look closely. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t get the key on time. But she wanted him to look closely too.

Perhaps it was just her fate to be haunted by a night never acknowledged. But that didn’t mean she had to suffer alone. Maybe it was cruel of her, but her mother’s voice rang in her ears anyway: Don’t capture their hearts. Steal their imagination. It’s far more useful.

And so she did. She sank into the beginning pose, hip jutted, chin tilted to expose the long line of her throat. The music started. She tapped her heels against the floor. The movements so precise it was as if she’d sewn her shadow to the beat.

Tha thai tum tha.

Séverin might have looked like liquid elegance as he lounged in the crowd, but she knew him. Every muscle was strung taut. Rigid. Beneath that posture was something prowling and hungry. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel them tracking her. His mouth had gone from a controlled smile to a slack line.

Laila felt a burst of satisfaction.

I won’t be haunted alone.

She dragged her hand across her chest. Séverin shifted in his seat. Laila hooked her pinky into the gap of the key. She stamped her foot, glancing at the floor as she concealed the key in a row of bangles. As she sank lower, she smiled to herself.

There was another power in her. A power that sat low and thick in her blood and consciousness. A way to move through a world that tried to keep her to the sidelines.

Steal their imagination.

She hovered on her heels, knees bent in nritta while the pleated emerald of her skirt fanned out. The music grew faster. The rhythm turned urgent.

She flicked her gaze toward the concealed glass key in her hand. Séverin’s head moved. Just barely. But she knew he understood. He reached into the basket. Around him, the others did the same.

The music turned faster, building into a climax. Finally, Laila looked directly at him and nearly fumbled. Séverin looked undone. His gaze lit up her skin. She forced herself into the movement, flicking up her fingers … a signal.

Séverin tossed the blossoms into the air. The other guests, seeing him do so, followed his movements. A shower of petals rained down, catching in her lashes like snow, brushing silkily against her lips. Laila extended her arm in a flourishing final arc of movement, tossing the key.

It sailed through the air.

Séverin caught it between his palms. A clap. Laila could picture his eyes perfectly, even though she couldn’t see them. His dusk-colored gaze darkening, fixed on her. Laila knew she should look at the other audience members, but she couldn’t look anywhere but at him, and she didn’t want him looking at anyone but her.

As the room burst into applause, the man sitting behind Séverin caught her gaze. He wore a mustard-colored suit, his body entirely too still. Laila shuddered as she walked off the stage. He’d hunched over Séverin like a wraith … or a beast on the verge of attack.





17





ZOFIA


Zofia checked the clock. Séverin was late. Already, there was less than an hour before she had to get ready for the ball, and if she didn’t have a cast molding of the key, there was no point. It was too bad the matriarch didn’t use a handprint to open her vaults … she could have used her refined Streak of Sia formula. Then again, she didn’t have any of the critical ingredients. They were all back in her laboratory at L’Eden.

Zofia forced herself to sit in one of the corners of the room. It wouldn’t help to pace. Half of any acquisition was just the long, long stretches of waiting. But all that waiting only brought them closer to their goal.

One more day.

One more day, and then all of this would be behind them.

By midnight, they would be in the vault. With the location of the Horus Eye secured, it was just a matter of taking the object off a shelf. It was a small thing, but with large consequences. Once the Eye was acquired, everything could change … she could pay off her debts and her sister could finally start medical school. When Séverin became a patriarch, he’d have the strings of the world in his hand, and he might even be able to reverse her expulsion from university.