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Something dangerously close to tears stung her eyes. “Thank you,” Fey whispered.

Then, as though realizing something, Alastair pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Here,” he said. “This is Jasper’s number. I trust him. If something happens to me, he’ll help you out.”

Alastair smiled at her. All that confidence and bravado back, as though it had never slipped in the first place. “Stay safe, Witchling,” he whispered, and then he was gone, slipping out of the physical world and into somewhere else, somewhere the world was made of shadows, making his way back to the palace.

Fey waited. Waited until she was sure he was gone, waited still as a statue until she was certain, beyond any doubt, that she was alone and hadn’t been followed.

Outside, the bell tower chimed the hour, and a startled owl hooted in response. It was amazing to her that the world outside of the palace was unchanged. Her world had been turned upside down, but night still fell, and life in the Eternal City continued without her.

Fey rose and made her way through the abandoned building to her old room.

Chapter 39

ALASTAIR

Leaving Fey behind in that dusty, broken building had been the hardest thing Alastair had ever done. But he wouldn’t have done it—couldn’t have done it—if he didn’t trust that she knew what she was doing.

When Alastair returned to the party, stopping by the restroom first to put his clothing in order and wash the smell of Fey from his fingers, it was as if he’d never left. People were chatting and laughing, half lost in their cups, deliriously happy, without a care in the world.

Alastair hated them all.

But he hated one of them, in particular, more than all the rest. Hated the male so much it was hard to still the rage growing inside him.

He’d barely made it back to the party and gotten himself a drink before Dameon returned, hurrying to the Queen’s side.

It would be so easy, Alastair thought to himself as he watched Dameon bend down to whisper in the Queen’s ear, so very easy to snap the male’s neck. With Alastair’s speed, there wasn’t a single person in this building who had the power to stop him.

He’d seen the look on Fey’s face when Dameon had pulled that bottle out. Seen her face crumble, devastated. Betrayed. That alone was enough to sign the male’s death warrant, but then…

Alastair had liked the crazy little Witch that fucker had killed. Willow—that’s what her sisters had called her. She’d been bloodthirsty, yeah, but wasn’t he the same? Something about her had made him smile, made him glad Fey had a Witch like that protecting her.

And Fey? Fey had loved her.

And this vile excuse for a male had taken that beautiful, bloodthirsty Witch away from her, away from the world, snuffing it out like it meant nothing.

Alastair’s lips curled back in a snarl, and he took a step forward.

No one would be able to stop him in time to save Dameon. He might even make it out alive if he were quick enough. No one would?—

“Ah, there you are.”

The murderous rage growing inside Alastair stilted, and he exhaled, dizzy with the strength of his anger.

Cassiel Salvatore deSanguine placed a hand on his son’s arm, turning Alastair to face him.

“My God,” he said, his lip curling in distaste. “Where have you even been? You look…” Words failed his father, as his gaze traveled up and down Alastair’s body, taking in the wrinkled shirt, the blood his stomach, and various stains on his pants. Some of which were very obvious against the black fabric. “God above, you smell like a whorehouse.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “And how would you know what a whorehouse smells like, father?”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Cassiel snapped. “Just look at yourself. I brought you here to socialize, not sleep with anything that moves.”

Alastair just shrugged, taking a sip of his whiskey. He’d long since stopped giving a fuck what his father thought about him.

“Are you still drinking that swill? You can’t even get drunk, son. What’s the point of it?”

“I like the taste,” Alastair answered with a smile. “Why do you think I opened a bar?”