Page 40 of Liars and Liaisons

“What do you—” I cut off, my hand freezing on the knob when it stops resisting. Stops budging altogether.

Because he’s locked me in.

13

Violet beatson the other side of the door, the rapid thud of her fists enough to jar my body as I lean against it.

My fingers curl around the key as I slip her phone into my breast pocket.

It was either this or drugging her again. The drugs wouldn’t have kept her from wandering though, and I can’t have that tonight.

Not when Nathaniel’s decided to attend the shindig.

Eventually, the pounding stops, and a heavier thump presses weight into me. Her weight, as I imagine her body slumps against the door in defeat.

Swallowing, I release the key and count to seven, trying to calm the sudden ferocity of the blood rushing through my veins. The blood that’s desperate for me to unlock the door and pounce—take her where there are no witnesses.

She already occupies my every waking thought. Even the hour or two I manage to exhaust myself into slumber, she’s there, waiting with open arms and legs and not remotely interested in my brother.

I can’t remember the last time someone affected me this way. During college, parties and sexual interactions were used primarily as stress relief—my father disapproved of anything more. Which meant that I looked for release in anyone willing to give it regardless of names or status or gender.

Aside from Priya briefly, I wasn’t serious about anyone. Certainly not to the point where I’d care to keep them from the depravity lurking like some sort of ancient beast at my doorstep.

Before I can change my mind, I push away from the room and pocket the key.

Upon my arrival downstairs in the closed-off southern wing, cheers echo off the walls, loud enough to disturb the house ghosts hanging around. Their presence is as heavy and blatant as usual, the obnoxious partygoers doing little to distract me from their screeching in my head.

That hollow tune, like the frequencies created by a pan flute, follows me like the rain as I make my way through the crowd of masked guests. Some tuck themselves against the walls, laughing and drinking with complete abandon. Others twirl around various rooms, tangled in each other’s limbs, as if warming up to the debauchery these parties are known for.

That’s why the secret identities are required. Anonymity goes a long way, especially in a town as small as Duris, and ticketed patrons are given masks from the James family collection at the door.

Truth is, my father started the tradition of sin decades ago. It’s how he met two of his wives and how Harrison came into existence. Most of my childhood was spent locked away in the west wing, where I practiced classical piano or violin with my brothers, while Ezekiel James succumbed to his most secret desires.

I resurrected it upon my return, just for the guise of something to do. An alibi of sorts for when the music industry’s favorites started dropping like poisoned vermin.

Hardly enough punishment for what they’d done, what they’d taken from me, but for now, it suffices. At least with the masks, no one’s even aware I’m in attendance.

Just like they don’t know Nathaniel is here tonight, sprawled out on a couch in a half-empty parlor as a woman crouches in his lap, snorting a line off his dick.

On the wall across from him hangs a giant, gold-plated mirror. His gaze doesn’t flicker away from his reflection for even a second.

For all intents and purposes, his presence is reminiscent of a king, moments before a dethroning.

He’s wearing a white Venetian bauta mask, his mouth hidden behind the pointed chin line. As I approach, he glides a hand over his short brown hair, watching me as if he’s not sitting with his pants at his ankles.

“Nathaniel,” I greet, pushing the cloak hood from my head. There’s a slight increase of privacy in this room, so I don’t need to be as buttoned up.

Plus, the cloak adds intimidation. It’s alluring—at least to those intrigued by the things they can hide in the dark.

Like the red-lipped, dark-eyed vixen now trapped upstairs.

“Grayson.” His word is muted, his gaze hooded, while the woman between his legs shifts to extract pleasure from him.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at the absolute predictability of the scene. How easily we James men destroy our lives for such frivolous, temporary whims.

“I’m surprised to see you still floating around,” he says after a moment, pushing the woman’s head into his lap. He keeps her there, flush with his pelvis, until her red nails claw at his thighs. “Shouldn’t you be off sulking at your piano by now?”

“You’ve not been to a party in a long time.” I flick a piece of lint from my suit jacket, tucked beneath the cloak. “I think it’s rude of a host not to make the rounds at his own soiree.”

---