Page 22 of To Curse A Knight

I hadn’t yet decided what to do with her. I could admit I didn’t like the thought of killing another woman—but genital mutilation wasn’t the answer either. Women had experienced enough of that in our history.

At her closed office door, I paused. My window was brief at best. Giving the handle an experimental wiggle, I pushed inward with enough pressure on the knob to unlock the cheap latch.

The part of the building where the kids were cared could rivalThe Truman Show—every angle and crevice of the facility was captured via closed circuit camera. This section didn’t have nearly the same features. I’d use it to my advantage today, but would wire the funds to Roberta to up their office security immediatelyafterI finished my task.

On quick feet, I located Sandra’s purse—a Prada bag—behind her desk. The tracker was attached to a small square of blot paper in my jacket pocket—trust Lauchlan to make state-of-the-art tracking technology look like an LSD drop—and carefully removed its sticky backing to place it directly on the silk fabric lining closer to the bottom.

I closed the door softly behind me and confidently strode back down the hallway to the dispersing crowd. Marty waved me down from the entrance, ready to escort us to our next meeting.

Whether it was justice by night, or business by day, time stood for no man—or woman.

“Let’s take a detour,” I suggested to Marty as we stepped out of our final meeting of the afternoon into the chilled December air. “I have a small stop I’d like to make.”

Marty eyed me, frosted gray eyes twinkling knowingly against the dull palette of grayer sky. “Kellan again?” he teased, opening the car door for me before Joey could get the chance. Closing the door behind me, he got in on the other side.

“No, not Kellan again,” I huffed in annoyance, buckling my seat belt and nodding at Joey to drive. “But someone equally exhausting.” I sunk back into the buttery leather of the headrest and closed my eyes. I opened one and peered over to see him staring at me expectantly.

“My father.” My lips twitched down in a grimace. “I’ve been summoned again, and I’d like to get it over with. If you’re with me, I can make sure it’s a quick visit.”

Marty nodded and faced forward, scrolling his phone. I peered out the window at the mountainous landscape, my mind too scattered to properly enjoy the view.

I’d denied Daddy’s request for leave last time, under the guise of not wanting to request a ridiculous favor from Kellan, but mostly, I’d done so out of pure spite. I’d lied and told him that Kellan wouldn’t grant it. Georgio Carlos had been my father’s best friend, and his brother, the one who’d put a bullet into his brain, wasn’t likely to grant him a pass, anyway. It wasn’t worth the trade, if he’d be willing to trade at all.

Naturally, Camden directed the fury over the very bed he’d made himself at me. I’d ignored it for as long as I could.

“Would you like me to come in with you?” Marty asked as Joey parked in the ornate circular driveway at the front entrance to the family grand manor.

“Actually… yes.” I dipped my head in thanks before abandoning my warm vehicle for the frigid air of my father’s castle.

I strode into the home without knocking and ran right into the suited penguin that was Alaric.

“Miss Lane.” He sniffed the air as if I carried a foul smell. “I must insist you ring the doorbell when you arrive, I—”

“I won’t be ringing the doorbell tomyhome, Alaric.” I arched a single challenging eyebrow in his direction, then beckoned Marty to follow me through the house, ignoring the dignified ‘hmmmf’ the stuffy butler tossed in my direction.

Making my way to Daddy’s study, I noticed many of the paintings I’d hung were missing—rectangle shadows of dust collecting in their places.

Marty trailed a few feet behind me, his brows raising at the elaborate trim details and ornate light fixtures dotting the main hall. Likely, he was surprised I’d opted to spend money on Daddy, given the circumstances.

It was sheer familial guilt, through and through. Even I wasn’t immune to the power of a narcissist.

I found the man in question seated on the leather sofa in his study as expected, but I wasn’t expecting the woman sidled up next to him.

“Marcie?”

What was Marcie Davidson doing here?

“Hello, Hillary!” The blond, blue-eyed woman in her fifties beamed up at me like we were old friends. “So nice to see you again!”

I hadn’t seen Marcie in years; she and her husband were in the tech sphere in Carlisle for years, so she’d attended many of the same galas. She’d also had a fling with Winter’s father before he was sentenced to prison, but we’d had no personal connection otherwise.

I scanned the scene—Marcie comfortably nestled into the seat, her knees resting against Daddy’s thighs, his hand resting on her calf—the cozy picture of a relationship.

“Why am I being summoned again?” I asked brusquely, more irritated than I probably should allow him to see by this sudden revelation.

“I wanted to know your Christmas plans.”

Daddy’s statement was simple, but the expectation in his eyes was not. Despite my reservations, I’d spent Christmas Day with him every year since his house arrest; a painful twelve hours of time-honored traditions, none of which carried any meaning, pretending our family valued our blooded bond. I’d decided months ago I wouldn’t be keeping up the charade this year, and I’d told him so.

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