Page 42 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 42

T he next night, when the Nomad throws a dinner party, he sits me to his left.

And Astor to mine.

When Peter, who returned grumbling earlier that day from whatever fool’s errand the Nomad sent him on, protests, the Nomad responds, “Our guests, the ones with intel into the Whittakers’ business dealings, have a custom where lovers sit opposite one another.” He nods at the seat across from me with the casualness of a man who knows a matter has already been settled.

By the time Peter takes his seat, he’s practically fuming.

I try to control myself. Try to keep from glancing in Astor’s direction.

I don’t have that kind of self-control.

In the end, I look, and my stomach swells with warmth at the slightest smirk I glance on the corner of my once-Mate’s lips.

The Nomad’s guests soon arrive, a young couple with matching silver bands around their ring fingers.

“We apologize for our tardiness,” says the woman, rubbing her light brown hands against the tops of her thighs, wrinkling her fine russet skirts. She addresses the Nomad quickly before glancing away and shifting closer to her husband, a pale man whose build I can’t help but think would not do his wife much good if the Nomad wished them any harm.

“Indeed,” says the thin man, straightening to his full height at his wife’s timid touch. “Our carriage driver experienced a dizzy spell on the way to the docks.”

“No need to apologize,” says the Nomad, gesturing them to their seats—the man’s beside Peter, the woman’s next to mine. “So long as you brought the information you promised.”

The couple glances at one another, then both take their seats, the man muttering, “Of course.”

Next to me, the woman trembles in her seat, so I lean over and whisper, “He won’t hurt you unless you give him a reason to.”

I’m not certain these are the most comforting words I could have chosen, but I’d rather err of the side of truth. Still, the woman appears grateful, nodding to me silently as her shoulders soften.

As the servants bring the first course, a steaming mutton broth, the Nomad claps his hands. “Well, no reason to bother with small talk. Lord and Lady Swindle here claim to have useful information regarding the Whittaker Manor.”

Lord Swindle hardly swallows his spoonful of broth before speaking, leaving his voice sounding gargled. “The windows—they’re enchanted. Lord Whittaker had the spells performed by a mage years ago.”

“And why would he do that?” asks the Nomad.

“Because he’s a paranoid old man,” says Lady Swindle, surprising the table with her interjection.

“I suppose he has a reason to be,” muses Astor next to me.

“How do you know the windows are enchanted?” asks the Nomad.

“I was betrothed to Lord Whittaker’s son,” says Lady Swindle. “My family’s wealth is self-made, and though Lord Whittaker was pleased with my dowry, he was suspicious of my background. My mother is Imenian, and he got it into his head that she might be summoning spirits to whisper into his ear at night, convincing him to agree to the betrothal.”

“So rather than end his son’s betrothal with you, he had his windows enchanted to keep spirits from leaking through the cracks?” says Peter.

“As I said, my dowry was difficult to dismiss,” says the lady, her husband nodding in agreement.

“Yet the betrothal ended anyway?” I say.

The lady nods. “My parents aren’t like most of the nobility. They were eager to find me a suitable match, but not at the cost of my happiness. After meeting Lord Whittaker’s son and finding him to be just as awful as his father, my parents ended the agreement.”

“For which I’m eternally grateful,” says her husband, smiling at her softly from across the table.

Even in her distress, Lady Swindle blushes.

Underneath the table, a hand brushes mine. I suck in a breath, which has the Nomad asking me if something smells awry.

“No, not at all,” I say quickly as Peter’s brows raise in suspicion from across the table.

“In fact,” says Astor, nodding toward the sheathes of dried lavender that decorate the table, “Darling loves the smell of lavender.”

Heat creeps up my neck, Peter’s attention homing in on my blotchy skin.

“I’m shocked you remember such a detail, all this time after you betrayed her,” says Peter.

“In case you’re forgetting,” says Astor, “I got to know Darling quite well during her time with me.”

Peter’s smile is poison. “Perhaps. But you never did take her to bed, did you? So I suppose there are some things I know that you don’t.”

Astor’s tanned skin drains of color. He looks at me, just the swiftest glance. My heart climbs to my throat, my blood into my cheeks. I open my mouth to deny it, but what am I to say that wouldn’t be a lie? It’s confirmation enough, and he clears his throat, straightening.

“Yes, well, some of us had the good sense not to bed our prisoner, lest there be a conflict of interest in her agreeing to it,” says Astor through almost-closed teeth.

Peter stands from his seat, arms crossed, wings flexing behind him. They fill up the space behind him, making him look colossal. “You think I forced her into it,” says Peter, like the idea is humorous.

Now it’s my turn for my cheeks to drain of color.

“Now, why would I think that? Surely not because of what I walked in on in the Carlisles’ annex? Or perhaps my assumption is based on the fact that Darling resolved not to bed a man until she saw proof of commitment on his finger.”

Resolved. My mind lingers on that word. On how I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it used in reference to me. My throat hurts.

Peter cackles. “Believe it or not, I waited for her. Oh, there were so many times I could have pushed, could have prodded. But I waited. Do you want to know why?”

Astor is breathing hard, but Peter has him suspended in morbid curiosity, locked in the kind of pain you’d rather feel than anticipate, fantasize over.

“Because when I finally had her, I wanted it to be because she begged for me.”

Astor lunges across the table. Lady Swindle screams. But the Nomad is faster than my mate, grabbing him by the back of the collar. “Perhaps save mangling the winged boy until after we’ve no need of him, hm?”

“Need is a strong word, don’t you think?” says Astor between heavy breaths.

Peter offers him a sly grin. “He knows he can’t hurt me. Not without hurting her. Though that hasn’t stopped him in the past.”

Astor backs off, straightening his coat, but Lord and Lady Swindle are still tensed in their seats. There’s anger in Astor’s eyes, but it’s a mask, hiding the hurt aching within him.

Peter must notice, because he says, “What? Were you hoping your once-Mate had been raped? Would that have made it easier on you?”

I wait for Astor to snap back. To answer with some clever, barbed retort, but he doesn’t. He just blinks slowly. Like he’s actually taking Peter’s words to heart, considering whether there’s any ounce of truth in them.

Regret and guilt sicken Astor’s face. He glances at me, apology written all over his expression, though no words come, not even as his jaw works.

I’m sorry, are the words he’s looking for but can’t seem to find, but they’re unnecessary.

Because I slept with Peter for this very moment. So that I could glimpse the hurt on Astor’s face if one day he discovered it.

Now that it’s happened, it’s not nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped. Nothing in my life has been.

Peter glances across the table at Astor and looks his rival up and down. “How does it feel to know you’ve lost her for good?” he taunts.

The Nomad is back to his seat, his hands splayed against each other as he presses his palms together. There’s a quiet judgment in his gaze, a measuring assessment as he glances between Peter and Astor. Like he’s tallying up their scores.

The Nomad’s gaze lands on Peter. “Tell me, Peter. How did you convince Darling here to sleep with you after you killed her brother?” Peter freezes, his jaw locking. Astor’s eyes go wide with shock, and he glances at me for a confirmation I can’t bear to give, so I keep my attention fixed on the Nomad, who drives the final blow in further by saying, “Or were you smart enough to wait until after you got her into your bed to inform her of that little detail?”

The room goes silent, except for the trickle of sand in the hourglass that sits in the middle of the table and a cough from Lord Swindle.

And then Astor speaks. “How dare you?” There’s true shock in the way he stands. Like he can’t comprehend someone who claims to love me doing something so abominable.

“He left me no choice,” says Peter. “It was self-defense.”

“Something tells me Wendy doesn’t see it that way,” says Astor.

I shake my head. “Peter didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

The words cut on their way out of my mouth, slicing my lip, making me bleed lies. But I have no choice but to choose Peter’s side in this argument. It’s a betrayal deeper than any Peter has forced me into. A betrayal of my brother. A betrayal of my own grieving.

“Unbelievable,” says Astor, voice breathy. “You, a fae Fates-gifted with shadow magic, had no choice but to murder the human brother of the girl you claim to love? What happened to you?” demands Astor.

And for a moment, he’s not talking to his rival. He’s talking to Peter. The boy who befriended him in the orphanage. His only friend for years.

He’s talking to the boy he used to dream of escaping with.

Peter stares at him like the answer should be obvious. “You really don’t know?”

“Peter,” says the Nomad, his voice drawling. “I need to speak with you privately.”

Lord and Lady Swindle’s seats scrape against the floor as they scurry to leave.

Peter falters, but I’m out from under his arm in half a moment, heading for the door.

“Wait for me outside the door,” Peter commands on my way out.

I pretend not to hear him as Astor follows me into the hall.