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“Well,” she said, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes. It had been well-styled, brushed back in a coif before, but now? Now it was a mess. And she found herself liking it better this way. “You’ll just have to make it up to me, then. Good thing you know someone who lives here, and knows where all the free beds are, isn’t it?”

His lips curved up into a smile. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

She smirked back at him, pulling her pants back up over her hips. “Yeah,” she purred. Alastair straightened, tucking himself back into his pants and attempting to button his shirt. “So, why don’t we?—”

Voices in the hallway. Fey froze, but Alastair’s smile grew even wider and more wicked, his golden eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Uh oh,” he whispered. “We better be quiet, Witchling.” He reached for her, running his thumb over her bottom lip.

She couldn’t help it, she laughed again, softly as she could, her fingers retying the laces on her pants, making it clear to him she had no plans on pushing their luck here any further. This incorrigible asshole.

There were audible footsteps in the hallway now, drawing closer, and Fey could hear the soft cadence of conversation grow more distinct as they grew near. Alastair put a finger to her lips and whispered “Shhhhh” as the voices drew close enough for them to hear.

But she recognized that voice. Her smile slipped slightly, under Alastair’s finger, and he drew his hand back, sensing the shift in her and frowning.

Yes. She did know that voice. She’d heard that voice for years.

Dameon.

Fey tilted her head, straining to listen.

That was Dameon’s voice.

“I don’t care what you thought. Coming here tonight was a mistake,” Dameon was saying. His voice held an edge of anger Fey rarely heard in it, and it chilled her blood to hear it. “What if someone saw you?”

“It’s a party, isn’t it?” a gruff voice answered, and something about that voice tugged on a memory. She recognized them, too.

But from where?

“Don’t be so fucking brainless,” Dameon answered. They were closer now, and though they were still whispering, Fey no longer had to strain to hear them. “Anyone could have seen you.”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to bring it,” the other voice protested with a growl. “What was I supposed to do? Leave it somewhere for someone else to find?”

They stepped into the light of the oil lamps in the hallway, and despite herself, Fey sucked in air audibly in shock, prompting Alastair to wrap his hand around her, pulling her against him.

She did know that voice, and the moment she saw the Shifter with Dameon, the memory of where she’d heard it before came crashing into her.

That same voice, that same growl.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

A face, moments before it split open, moments before the male transformed before her into a beast.

Into a Panther.

Fey’s heart strained in her chest. Dameon—who hated all Shifters since a Bear Shifter had left that scar across his face—was talking with a Shifter. Dameon was talking with the Shifter from the warehouse, the one who’d attacked her, who’d almost killed her. Talking as though they knew each other.

She might have screamed if Alastair hadn’t been there, holding her. In fear, in rage, in confusion, she didn’t know. But cradled in Alastair’s arms, she stayed quiet and watched as they walked right past them in the too-small hallway and continued down the hall and out of sight.

The moment Alastair loosened his grip on her, she was gone—out of his arms, out of the alcove, and running down the hallway. She heard him swear quietly behind her, and he called her name in a soft hiss, but Fey didn’t look back.

Tonight, she would get answers. Tonight, she was going to find out the truth, even if it killed her.

Chapter 37

Fey followed Dameon and the Shifter deeper and deeper into the palace, keeping enough of a distance between them to prevent them from seeing her. At some point she became aware of Alastair moving alongside her, his steps making no noise against the marble floor.

Shooting him a glare, Fey hissed, “Go back to the party.”