Page 9 of Blind Devotion

“Pardonne-moi, petite rescapée.” Forgive me, little survivor. It was the most I could offer.

The double doors at my back snapped open, and several sets of footsteps stepped in. Alizé, Thibault, Erel, and my chief of security, Michel.

“Guests are distracted and fed. Maman is making rounds,” Alizé stated loudly over the crowd’s cawing before the closing doors shut their voices out.

Her heels clacked against the hardwood. Her silver gown swished with her long, purposeful strides, forcing her peach perfume, one of her own creations, to waft throughout the room. Her ash-brown curls bounced with every forceful step. She commanded attention, just like our mother, a trait the De Villier women wore well.

“So this is our wayward guest? Oh, put the knife away, Adrien. No one’s going to attack her here.”

If only my sister knew. I rose to my full height. “Leave, all of you.”

My sister laughed. “And jump back out there into the frying pan? I don’t think so. Here, let’s put this over her.”

Alizé draped a throw blanket over the woman, covering her up from head to toe, including that tattoo.

“I didn’t think you had it in you to care for another,” my sister said.

“Where’s Margaux?” I asked Erel, ignoring Alizé. As the co-owner of Endgame, Erel deserved to know the mysterious woman on that couch was a loose thread, but disclosing that was akin to admitting failure. I never failed.

“With your mother,” Erel answered. “They’re coming.”

“I’m certain our brother has simply found another reason to excuse himself from social expectations.” I rolled my eyes at Thibault’s mocking condescension.

“Contrary to what you both believe, the guests never lack in seeing my face.”

“No, they simply feel blessed by the divine if you ever deign to address them. Fine speech earlier, by the way. Should I tell Maman to expect the visit of a priest and some communion wafers?”

I rubbed the corners of my eyes and sighed.

Alizé crouched down and pressed two fingers to the woman’s wrist. “Well, she’s alive at least.”

“Yes,” I deadpanned, “because your genius was needed to ascertainthat.”

Thibault chuckled. “I think that’s exactly what troubles our fearsome leader. What to do with her because she is alive.”

“She might have been better off dead,” I retorted. Either way, she soon would be.

“Pretend all you want, your heart’s not that frozen.”

“Shows how little you know me, sister.”

“It once wasn’t…” Thibault singsonged at me.

And look where that led. But I didn’t dare voice those words. They were forbidden, just like thoughts ofher. That relationship, friendship, whatever it once was, was done and over with, far in the rearview without any chance for a U-turn.

Alizé brushed back the woman’s wet hair to reveal more of her bruised face. “She’s pretty, despite all this.”

I couldn’t help snorting.

“There’s something about her. I cannot—” Alizé leaned over the unconscious woman, ear pressed to her mumbling lips. “Quiet. Both of you,chut.”

We quieted just in time to catch a murmur from the sodden corpse on my couch. The voice was scratchy, no louder than awhisper. I didn’t catch a syllable, but Alizé sat back on her heels after a moment, unmoving, eyes wide.

“Oh c’est pas vrai.” It can’t be true, Alizé whispered. She gingerly patted the squatter’s bloody face with the blanket. Such odd tenderness compared to moments before. “Erel, give me your coat.”

“What? I—”

“Just give me your damn coat.”