Page 32 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 32

T he Nomad scrunches his brows tighter, clearly amused at my strange request. “Dear, do you think you could manage to sound slightly more bored with the idea?”

I smile, and it’s genuine—the laugh that escapes from my mouth. “I could attempt it, but I must admit, it would be difficult.”

The Nomad’s smile grows conspiratorial as he glances behind us, watching Peter and Astor as we dance. “Which of them are you hoping to wound?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does when determining the best angle.”

I bite my lip. “What if I said both?”

The Nomad laughs. “Then I’d tell you I can manage that.”

He makes me wait, informing me that the current song isn’t romantic enough. “If I’m to do this, I will be believable.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go into acting,” I say.

He furrows his brow, feigning offense. “I’m a crime lord, my dear. It requires a similar skill set, I assure you. And it’s more fun this way. The stakes are much higher. If you’re a stage actor and the audience doesn’t believe you, you get pelted with tomatoes. If you’re not convincing at what I do, well, the stain on your shirt is from something else entirely.”

“So you enjoy it, then?” I ask. “Profiting off the pain and misery of others?”

The Nomad blinks at me curiously. “Do you want me to kiss you or not?”

I don’t smile, but the corner of my mouth flicks. “I wouldn’t go as far to say want.”

“You wound me,” he says, though there’s no desire for me in his gaze. I’ve come to notice the difference.

He waits for the song to build, until the swelling crescendo fills the entire room, then twirls me around, catching me in his arms. He’s positioned me so that Peter is in the corner to our right, Astor to the left. I shouldn’t look, should sell the kiss better, but I can’t help myself.

I look left.

Astor is holding a goblet in one hand, his only hand. He’s propped up against the wall, watching me. Normally, the sight of his gaze on me would make my face flush, would betray the effect he has on me, but my bargain with Peter slows all that, keeps it contained.

I catch him scanning my face for my reaction to our eye contact, looking for the telltale signs of my attraction he’s used to seeing.

I just turn back to the Nomad.

“So we’re clear, I’ll kill your Mate if you don’t kiss me,” he says, whispering it in my ear as the crowd around us murmurs quietly.

I offer him a fleeting look of confusion, and he explains, his cheek still brushed up against mine. “I’m still not sure the exact terms of your agreement with the flying boy, but I’d rather you not drop dead at my kiss. Though, now that I consider it, it might be good for business to have such a legend floating about.”

I almost roll my eyes at him, but I don’t want Peter or Astor to see. My heart hammers against my chest, and I’m keenly aware of how the attention in the room has shifted to the two of us.

My face threatens to go hot, but the Nomad just snakes his hand to the back of my neck, resting it on the bargain that will kill me if I don’t do as he asks within the span of a moon cycle. “Frightened of me, Darling?” he whispers, twirling my hair in his fingers.

“Moreso of the attention of the entire room,” I whisper back.

The Nomad’s blue eyes flicker. “You’ll thank me later.”

I don’t have time to ask him to explain, because in the next moment, I’m being pulled into his mouth, his lips crushing against mine. I’d asked the Nomad to kiss me, not claim me, but to a man like him, they’re one and the same. The crowd responds, erupting into a frenzy of applause and cheers as the entire world seems to stop around us.

He murmurs against my mouth, too quietly for anyone but me to hear, “If you wish for it to be convincing, Darling, it might be helpful if you kissed me back.”

Oh. Right. It’s only then that I realize I’ve been completely still, unreactive to the Nomad’s advances. Not helpful to my aims, and certainly not something the Nomad will appreciate. I’m sure it’s not a good look for a crime lord to appear undesired.

So I lean in and kiss him back, wrapping my arms around his back and clutching his sandy hair in my hands like I can’t get enough of him.

Kissing him is…not altogether unpleasant.

In fact, as the apprehension of being a spectacle for the room flushes through my blood, I’m filled with a sort of ravenous energy, not for the Nomad, but for the two men in opposite corners of the room. The men I don’t have to look at to know they aren’t joining in with the applause.

I throw myself into the kiss, making a show of melting into him. The more I lean into it, the more I find it natural, relaxing in the Nomad’s arms.

Just like me to find safety in the arms of a killer.

Even so, the Nomad is careful with his hands, doesn’t let them wander anywhere you might expect from a man of his occupation.

When what feels like an eternity but in reality is likely only a few seconds has passed, the Nomad is the first to draw back.

My cheeks and neck are flushed, and as we exchanged the most mischievous glances with one another, my heart flutters with an unfamiliar thrill. The Nomad turns to look at Peter. I probably should too, as he’s the most likely to react violently. But I don’t.

I turn toward Astor.

He’s not looking. In fact, he’s hardly paying attention to anything happening in our direction. It’s as if the entire room stopped to stare at the Nomad and me, and he hasn’t noticed. He’s still talking to the woman sutured to his side, who seems even more desperate for his attention than before.

My heart sinks, and embarrassment replaces the flush of exhilaration on my cheeks.

Stupid. Foolish. I don’t know what I was expecting. Why I thought Nolan Astor, who would have slit my throat to get his wife back, Nolan Astor, who didn’t come to save me from Neverland, even though he knew what Peter’s shadow self was capable of…

Why did I think Nolan Astor would care if he saw me kissing someone else?

Why did I think he’d spare a glance in my direction?

I fight back the sting of the tears at my eyes and my throat and feel the Nomad stroke the Mating Mark on my cheek, his thumb lingering close to my eyelid. I realize he’s stroking away a tear before it forms, before anyone can see. “It’s not time to let down the curtain yet. Show’s still on.”

I swallow, trying to ignore the lump in my throat, but I’m so afraid I’m going to lose it in front of all these people. Then Astor will see just what a stupid fool I’ve been all this time.

“He didn’t see,” I say. “Or if he did, he doesn’t care.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Perhaps you’re just not looking in the right place.”

I frown, then go back to look again at Astor, but I’m interrupted as Peter comes gliding up to us. He cuts his hand in between us, breaking up our dance.

“It’s time for Wendy and I to retire to bed,” he says, his smile all acid.

My stomach wilts. There’s a jealousy in Peter’s eyes that has the uncanny resemblance to an appetite. I don’t want to think about what he’ll want from me once we’re alone, after a display like the Nomad and I just put on.

My previously flushed cheeks go cold, my hands and arms clammy underneath my gloves.

The Nomad must sense my drop in temperature, because he curls his fingers through mine. “Now, I hardly think that would be appropriate, given what the crowd just witnessed. I can’t have a known mistress of mine sleeping with one of my guests. It would undermine me in the eyes of my enemies, you understand.”

Peter’s blue eyes turn to ice. He grabs my arm. “Come, Wendy. We’re not staying.”

The Nomad smiles at Peter, but he reaches out and pries Peter’s hand off my arm all the same.

“Don’t think I won’t kill you,” the Nomad breathes. “I know you have a fascination with claiming what’s yours, but I have my own trophies I like to keep close, my image being one of them.”

“Killing me will kill her,” says Peter.

“Then I suggest you take a step back,” says the Nomad. I glance at his eyes and find no deception there. A chill snakes through me. I’ll have to remember that while the Nomad and I might find our intentions aligned in some areas, he’s not my friend.

Still, he’s keeping me from having to assuage Peter’s pride tonight. For that, I can’t say I mind the threat to my life all that much.

Peter’s breathing hard, but he lets go of my arm.

The Nomad grins. “She’ll sleep in my quarters during your stay here. Oh, don’t look at me like that—it’s all for show. Don’t worry, I won’t lay a hand on your Darling little possession.” The Nomad grins like he’s content with Peter believing he’s lying through his teeth.

“If I find out you as much as?—”

The Nomad tsks. “You can have her back when I have what I want. So I suggest you get to work.”

Peter looks as if he’s about to explode, but he must realize he’s on the verge of losing his composure, because he takes a step back and composes himself, that familiar sly, carefree look overcoming his face. “As you wish,” he says, before making a show of slinking into his shadow form and exiting the room.

The crowd around us gasps, and the Nomad’s jaw bulges with an annoyed tick.

“You’re not the only one who likes attention, I’m afraid,” I say.

“I can see that,” he says, turning back toward me.

“You’re being kind to me,” I say as we drift into another dance, me fighting the entire time not to look in Astor’s direction. Trying not to be crushed that he hasn’t bothered to intervene.

The Nomad cocks his head at me. “Am I? I thought I was taking you to be my mistress?”

I crinkle my nose at him.

“Does that amuse you?” he asks.

“It does, actually. Because I’ve been kissed plenty of times in my life, and I can guarantee there was little to no desire in that one.”

“Ouch.”

I smile. “I meant on your side.”

The Nomad crinkles his nose, mimicking me. “Well, you were the one who asked me to kiss you.”

“Still, you’re being kind by getting me out of Peter’s room.”

The Nomad’s face goes cold. “You have a terrible habit of perceiving friendship in the strategic moves others make, Wendy Darling. I’d break myself of that tendency if I were you.”

I blanch, then find myself turning to look at Astor once more. My heart drops when I find the spot he’s been in all night is empty.

“You really should look more closely,” says the Nomad.

I frown, but when I focus on the corner, I notice something sparkling on the floor. Shattered glass, along with a clear liquid that’s been spilled out all around it. Water, not faerie wine.

I glance toward the door and find Astor, his back turned to me, striding out of the ballroom.

At one hand is a glinting hook.

His other hand is bleeding.