Page 24

That area, where St. Maarten herself invariably chose to position herself, was only accessible from a deeper, more private area of the house.

Lara changed the furniture in that area fairly frequently, but it always had an air of the gilded perch. From there, she figuratively and literally looked down upon her subjects, her guests, and her employees. The platform now housed a dark green couch with a low coffee table that looked to be made primarily of organics, but the base and trim were bright gold.

She was standing, however, as she glared down at Nick, who stood in the sunken part of the room, like all good vassals.

Maybe she stood simply to gain those extra few feet on him.

Or maybe he simply annoyed her more than most of her guests.

“Has Farlucci contacted you yet?” she asked coldly.

“Just answer the question, Lara.” He knew she hated it when he used her first name. She likely hated it with every fiber of her being, especially when he did it in such a familiar, annoyed, and condescending way. It only made Nick want to do it more.

“Where is Wynter?” he growled. “Where are the kids? Where the fuck did you put them now? Or am I really not allowed to know that?”

She sniffed, her expression rippling with that annoyance.

“They are here, of course,” she said haughtily.

“Here?” He stared up at her. “Here, where? What does that mean?”

She glared back at him, but he saw a glimmer of reluctance in her eyes, like she regretted that she’d told him anything at all.

It made him think she was likely telling him the truth, at least.

“All of you will be staying with me from now on,” she said stiffly, that reluctance still in her words. “And before you ungraciously but predictably tell me to fuck off, Detective, you might want to think about whether you have anyotherrealistic alternatives apart from an H.R.A. cell.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Particularly, any options that would allow you to share an accommodation with your, err… mate.”

She said the last word with obvious distaste.

“You cannot return to the Northeastern Protected Area,” she added, a touch colder. “You are already being watched whenever you are outside one of my facilities, and you willdefinitelybe picked up again if you try to leave the New York Protected Area, given everything that has occurred over the past few weeks.”

She sniffed again, tossing back her head and hair.

“Many within the racial authorities are still suspicious of you, despite the death of your doppelgänger. There are still some who think you must have been working with him, or possibly obstructing the investigation from the inside. The H.R.A. and their enforcement branch, The Leash, will be watching you from now on, especially. The I.S.F. only rescinded twenty-four hour surveillance orders when I offered to do it for them, and to provide them with daily reports and select footage. The N.Y.P.D. won’t tolerate you living outside vampire-designated housing anymore, like you had been with Ms. James. They won’t even allow it inside the boundaries of New York. Not without a special dispensation, which only someone like me can provide.”

Nick grunted again, but didn’t speak.

Lara’s eyes grew sharp as glass.

“The days when I could entirely shield and protect you from the racial authorities, even when you were outside a building under my direct control, areover,Detective,” she said crisply.

The finality in her words could not be missed.

Nick felt his fangs extend a little more, and looked away when he smelled a touch of wariness on the middle-aged human. He knew, even before he noticed the pink tint to his vision, that his eyes must be turning red, too.

She’d clearly seen that.

He couldn’t afford to make her so nervous she had him locked up for real.

For the same reason, he forced himself to remain quiet.

He forced himself to control his anger, to flatten his mind, his expression, his emotions, like he had in front of the Leash interrogators.

He stared out the window at Central Park, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt exceedingly unfree.

He’d let himself grow too used to that illusion of freedom.

“You have a fight tonight, I believe,” St. Maarten said next, her voice slightly subdued. “I would go to it, if I were you.”