Page 49

The month of March roars in like a lion, all bluster and humid rainstorms. The azalea bushes throughout the city bloom in full force.

Unfortunately, I’m scarcely outside to appreciate them. I stop seeing Matthew regularly, rarely finishing my work at Ray’s before midnight. Mellie leaves the window open for me every evening, but she can hardly hide her concern in the morning. The shadows under my eyes become permanently etched.

We’re one week into the month when she stages an intervention.

“Kat, are you on drugs?” Mellie asks, genuine concern in her tone.

I laugh her off, insist I’m fine. Or I will be soon.

One more week, I promise both Mellie and myself. I throw her a gilded bone—I’ve secured an invitation for her to the Ides of March ball. As Captain Ethan DaMolin’s date, no less.

Mellie’s ear-piercing shriek of excitement could crack glass. I manage a smile as she twirls away, floating on clouds straight to my closet where she begins pulling out gowns. Wondering what on earth she’ll wear—from my collection, evidently—to the party of the year on Jekyll Island.

Five days out from the ball, I stop sleeping. Three days out is when I go off food. In the final twenty-four hours, my hands develop a tremor that won’t go away.

I’m wide-awake, lying in my Academy bed, when the hallowed morning of Saturday, March fifteenth dawns. I rise with the sun, pull on a dress, and out the window I go. Matthew is due to pick Mellie and me up at noon to travel to Jekyll Island, and I need to go to Ray’s this morning.

The shop is still dark when I arrive. I flick on the lights in the workroom and head straight to my desk.

I unlock the drawer with the DaMolin rubies.

I place them on the table and give everything a thorough once-over with my loupe.

Then another. And another. Checking for perfection.

My heart pounds with each scan, praying no eleventh-hour problem materializes.

When I’m satisfied, I dig out a polishing cloth and start buffing. Over and over and over, compulsively. Over and over and over again.

Today…this necklace…everything needs to go perfectly. No room for error.

Today, several millennia ago on the Ides of March, a lover of Cleopatra was felled by a blade. A dictator. Julius Caesar.

Tonight, I’m aiming to take down a despot of my own.

When Matthew, Mellie, and I arrive at the Jekyll Island Club, there’s a croquet game on the great lawn. The participants are all dressed in white, whacking away at a set of pastel balls.

“It’s all very prim and proper, isn’t it?” I point to the game with a chuckle. “Like an advertisement in a magazine.”

“Indeed,” Matthew concedes. “Aside from the fact they’ve likely put ridiculous wagers on the outcome. Family fortunes don’t spend themselves, you know.”

My chuckle turns into a full-fledged laugh.

“Oh look, Ethan is on the veranda.” Matthew points, then taps the back of the front seat to catch the driver’s attention. “Excuse me, could you let us out here?”

Mellie perks up, scanning the porch for her escort .

“What?” My laughter dies instantly. “Matt, no. What about our things, our bags?”

“He’ll deliver them to Cherokee Cottage,” Matt replies, nodding at the driver. “Don’t fret.”

“But…but…my dress…” I say weakly. It’s not the dress I’m concerned about. It’s the DaMolin rubies. The forgery is burning a hole in my luggage; I don’t want to let it out of my sight.

Matt smiles indulgently. “Your gown will be fine, Katarina. Let’s introduce Mellie and have a lemonade with Ethan. There are hours to kill until the ball. We’ll walk to Cherokee to get ready later this afternoon.”

He doesn’t wait for my response; he’s already opening his car door, walking around to mine. Reluctantly, I follow him into the sunshine.

After introductions are complete, we sip lemonade on the porch with Ethan for the next hour, chatting and making outlandish projections as we observe the croquet match.

I notice Harry Astor among the players. I haven’t spoken to him since New Year’s Eve, since the night I walked in on him and Ethan together.

I casually point him out, but Ethan gives no reaction.

Mellie, naturally, is blissfully unaware, all pink cheeks and puckered lips as she sucks down her second glass of lemonade with contented vigor.

“Yes, I believe Harry has been on the island this whole week,” Matthew says, looking to his brother for confirmation. “Have you seen much of him, Ethan?”

“Hardly,” Ethan replies, smooth. “I’ve been locked up in Cherokee going over accounts with Dad. I believe Harry has been quite busy though. His cousins are visiting for the ball.” He points to two white-clad gentlemen beside Harry.

Less than a half hour later, the game breaks up. Most of the players slip past us to enter the clubhouse, but the Astors remain on the lawn. Harry shades his face to gaze at us. His eyes glide over Ethan with practiced ignorance, but they land on me with distaste. His posture coils tight .

Matt and Ethan lean over the porch railing as they chat, oblivious to the fast-approaching storm cloud that is Harry. His footsteps thud up the veranda steps. Mellie puts her empty glass of lemonade on the railing and moves to my side.

“Matt?” I reach for his arm, a bit anxious. “Perhaps we should—”

“Still slumming it, Matthew?” Harry asks. He flicks his eyes over me as he peels off white leisure gloves. “Is your little Catacomb toy really that good a fuck?”

I blink twice, shocked by the unprovoked vitriol. His aggression slices through the humid air.

Matthew rises and steps forward. I reach to stop him, but it’s Ethan who gets there first, firmly pressing a hand to his brother’s chest, halting him. His gaze slides over to Harry with confusion.

“Is that what you like, Matt?” Harry continues, prowling forward. “Paying a slut to get you off? How much does she charge per fuck? I hope you’re getting a deal.” He slides a hand in his pocket, produces a flask, and takes a long swig.

Ah, well, that explains it. I eye the alcohol warily, understanding all too well what fuel like that does to a smoldering fire.

Heat flames Matthew’s cheeks. “If you utter one more vile word against her,” he growls, glowering, “I’ll—”

“Yes, that’s quite enough, Harry,” Ethan jumps in, keeping the restraining hand on his brother’s chest. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Stay out of this, E,” Harry drawls. “I’m talking to your brother, not you. It’s not your fault he has piss-poor taste.”

“He can’t help it,” one of Harry’s cousins says. “It’s in his blood. His mother was a courtesan, after all.”

“That’s right.” Harry’s eyes light up. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh, Matthew? Like father, like son. The DaMolin men sure love their trash. ”

As soon as the comment about their father is uttered, Ethan drops his arm from Matthew’s chest. Both men rush forward, and neither Mellie nor I try to stop them.

Matthew collides with Harry. Ethan targets the Astor cousin who spoke.

I stare for a moment, astonished, as fists fly.

It’s not that I’m unaccustomed to a good scuffle—far from it—but it’s hardly something I was prepared for today.

This isn’t a back alley of the bayou, for Christ’s sake. It’s the Jekyll Island Club.

Matthew delivers a sharp blow to Harry’s left eyebrow before being hauled off by an Astor cousin. Ethan takes two blows to his side before getting a hit in edgewise.

I crack the knuckles on my right hand as I observe and consider. It’s three versus two, which simply won’t do. Mellie flounders and gasps beside me, a wind-up toy running circles at full steam. Ineffective.

“For the record,” I announce, “I want it stated…I didn’t start this fight, but I’m not above finishing it.”

No one is listening. Fine. They will be in a minute. After ascertaining there are no bystanders in the vicinity, I throw myself into the fray.

I grab the man’s shoulder who has Ethan in a lock and yank him back. I snatch his wrist and give a sharp flick, flipping him forward onto the floor. I turn my attention to Harry as he lands a glancing blow off the corner of Matthew’s jaw.

Target: Harry Astor.

“Enough.” I rip him away by the biceps while delivering a swift kick to the back of his knees.

He drops like a sack of flour, but I’m not done with him.

I yank backward, wrenching his arm in a way designed to zing in its socket.

I shove his spine into the wall of the clubhouse with the full, explosive power of my anger.

I raise my arm to lock him in across the neck.

Behind me, Matthew and Ethan stand over the Astor cousins, victorious.

Mellie shakes out her fist as though she’s thrown a delicate punch of her own, a secret smile of satisfaction playing on her lips.

“God, Kat you are such a bitch.” Harry spits out the insult as though he expects it to hurt.

Adorable.

“You’re right,” I say. “I am. With one key distinction—I’m the special kind of bitch they only breed in the Catacombs.”

I pull back and sink my fist into his gut, doubling him over, followed by a swift knee to the balls as he drops, just for good measure.

Paul would call it an object lesson. And I know to make sure it hurts.

It takes a little explaining on the walk home to Cherokee before Ethan is willing to let it go.

“You just decked him…absolutely leveled him. How did you do that?”

I shrug. “Ethan, don’t worry about it. I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”

“I’ll say.”

The four of us promenade along the walking path that loops the property, linking the cottages and clubhouse together.

Spanish moss cascades romantically from the ageless oak trees.

A few strolling couples mill about; the nearest pair holds a parasol to block the midday sun.

In the corner of my vision, I notice Matthew’s mouth is bleeding.

I pass him a cocktail napkin to dab away the evidence.

“Well, you’re officially in now, Kat. Just in case there was any doubt before,” Ethan continues.

“In what?” I ask absentmindedly, distracted by Matthew spitting blood into the grass. I slap his arm and point to an approaching passerby. He straightens quickly, chastised .

“You’re one of us,” Ethan clarifies. “You’re a DaMolin. One hundred percent.”

I pause, snapping my eyes to him as I remember the last time someone said something like that to me. Abe, when I was six years old, declaring I was a wolf, just like him. A Royal.

Ethan watches the burst of emotion flash over my face. “If he doesn’t marry you,” he continues, jerking his head toward his brother, “I will. I want you on our team.”

“You most certainly do,” Mellie purrs her assent.

I nod and blink quickly, trying to bury the emotion stirring deep inside me. The feeling of belonging to something. To a whole greater than the sum of its parts. What that means to me.

“I’m going to marry her, dick.” Matthew spits into the napkin this time. It’s only passably more subtle.

“Matthew?” I turn to him, forcibly ignoring the flutter in my stomach at his unexpected but casual mention of marriage. “Do you need ice when we get to the house? Would that help?”

“No, I’m fine. It’ll stop bleeding soon. The mouth is a highly vascular area of the body, like the rest of the head. It will clot imminently—the intrinsic cascade takes a few minutes to kick in before establishing a decent platelet plug.”

“At ease, doc,” Ethan mutters.

The parasol-toting couple is less than ten feet away now.

“Shall we?” I formally slide my arm back into Matthew’s.

To my surprise, Ethan takes my other arm, anchoring me between them.

Mellie is tucked securely to his opposite side, chin up and hat tilted to keep the sun out of her eyes.

The men walk slowly, genteel grins pasted to their faces.

Not a hair out of place. No one would ever suspect the four of us were just involved in a brawl.

Instead, we drift along the walking path like a respectable unit.

A quad of con artists in their own right, no one the wiser .

It’s not the unit I’m used to, certainly, but as I chance a glance to my left at Ethan and Mellie, another to my right for Matthew, I decide something.

It’s not a bad trade-off. Not a bad trade-off at all.