Page 78 of A Forbidden Arrangement

Her mouth twists. “Lucky him. Go on.”

“It’s not like we chose to be Lords. It was more like an inheritance. We were the automatic successors when my dad died.”

For the first time, her gaze softens. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Your dad passing.”

“Oh no, he was a bastard. We’re all better off with him dead.”

She drags a hand down her face, fingers pressing into her temples in slow circles. “That’s a lot of trauma to unpack.”

Normally, I’d stop the conversation before it got this far. I’ve never talked about this with anyone, but Dahlia’s different. I want her to know every side of me.

“I’ll do that with you.” I run my thumb along her cheekbone. “But it’s going to take a while, so if I’m going to explain the Order of Saints, we’ll have to table it for now.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that. No more secrets. Remember?”

No more secrets.

“It’s easier to just show you.” I hold out my hand to her. My stomach twists when she takes it. I can’t shake the fear of losing her.

I guide her through the mazelike halls of the old house until we stand in front of a steel door that stands out in the otherwise ornate hall. The black pad on the left lights up when I place my palm on it and lets out three quick beeps, followed by a mechanical sound of the dead bolt retreating.

Dahlia’s hand squeezes mine. “What the actual hell, Xander?”

“It’s really not that bad.”

“You have presidential-level security, and you’re telling me it’s not that bad?” Her eyes glint with curiosity as she tries to peek through the crack.

“Okay, maybe it is that bad.” I huff out a quiet laugh, shrug, and push the door open.

Over the years, the room’s turned into a catch-all.

Dahlia releases my hand and spins slowly, taking everything in. She doesn’t speak, just drifts farther inside. When she reaches the row of portraits, she tilts her head. “Your family?”

“Yes. My father’s side.”

She hums and moves on, pausing at the glass display case. “Are these real?”

Generations of family jewels rest on dark velvet. Diamond tiaras, gold crests, gems the size of eggs. The display looks like it was stolen from a palace. I debate whether now’s the time to tell her we have more money than royalty.

“So you’re really rich.” Her voice carries a mix of awe and disbelief. “Obscenely rich?”

“We…We are obscenely rich.”

Her head snaps up, face going white. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. I redirect the conversation, opening a drawer and pulling out my gold Wolf mask.

As the four Lords of the Order of Saints, my brother and I wear gold wolf masks. The Saints beneath us wear silver. She runs her fingers over the heavy fabric of my robe.

“We use them for ceremonies,” I tell her.

I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s definitely not her giggling. Her shoulders begin to shake as she tries to keep it together.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m just picturing a bunch of grown men dressed up in the rich-people equivalent of Halloween costumes, acting out ceremonies. You gotta admit, it’s kinda silly. “