Page 100 of Caging Darling

“He calls them his muses,” I whisper, my voice warbling.

Astor cuts his eyes toward me. “And your faerie friend? Is she among them?”

I survey the room, then turn back to him with a shake of my head.

“We can always abort. I never did like the idea of the part I’m to play in this.”

I shake my head. “My father collected wine, but even when he was seeking to show off his collection at dinner parties, he only brought out a select few. The ones he thought would most impress the guest list.” The vision of a cellar flashes through my mind. “My mother would track the guest list of their dinner parties to ensure no one ever witnessed her in the same dress twice. I doubt these Muses are the only ones.”

Astor nods. “So on, then?”

“You need my permission, now?”

Astor’s cheeks twitch.

We find ourselves a less-occupied corner of the room and keep to it.

“Is this strategic or are the two of us really this antisocial?” I ask.

“I see no reason we can’t claim both.”

We. A word as inconsequential as that shouldn’t make my heart skip. There is no we when it comes to me and Nolan Astor.

Eventually, the room hushes as a pair of muses, both dressed in wings that look to be made of eagle feathers, escort Vulcan through a side door, hanging on his arms.

He hasn’t changed at all since I last saw him, tucked into his lap in that cramped carriage. Even his hair, slicked back as it is, looks as if it hasn’t moved in the past two years.

My hands go clammy underneath my gloves.

Astor takes my hand and squeezes it. It shouldn’t, but his touch holds the panic in my chest at bay.

“Well, well. Who are all these people, my darlings?” Vulcan asks, turning to his muses in feigned surprise.

“Your muses wished to celebrate your birthday, my lord,” says the woman to his right, her deep brown skin painted gold at her cheekbones. She strokes his lapel with nails painted white.

“As a gesture of gratitude for rescuing us,” says the woman on his left, who happens to look more like a girl than a woman with her slender figure, wide eyes, and pale round cheeks.

Astor clenches his jaw next to me. “Remind me why the Nomad wishes to keep him alive, again.”

I bite my lip. “Apparently, Vulcan has postmortem contracts out on his life. If he’s murdered, the banks are obligated to pay out whoever catches the murderer and disposes of them.”

“So he’s preemptively placed a bounty on the head of any would-be killer.”

“That, and hired the entire world to do the task.”

Astor grunts, like he’s actually considering his odds.

On the stage, Vulcan continues, basking in faux surprise at what is obviously a staged birthday celebration he already knew about. No one wears tailcoats just strolling about one’s house; I don’t care how rich they are.

“Now, don’t scurry off yet,” says one of the girls at his side, stroking his shoulder when he makes a comment about needing to socialize with his guests. “Not before you get to see your presents.”

Vulcan’s eyes widen, and he plants a slimy kiss on the woman’s hand.

I recoil inwardly, but the girl seems unfazed. She gestures to the crowd with a well-practiced flourish. “Who wants to go first?” she calls in a girlish voice.

One by one, the guests line up with their gifts. The first presents a pair of elephant tusks, the second a russet-colored pearl the size of my fist.

While Vulcan is pretending to be shocked over a pair of faerie wings that make my stomach turn over, Astor takes me by the arm and maneuvers us into the line. As the line ebbs us ever closer to Vulcan and his greedy hands, the room begins to swim around me, and I’m back in his carriage, his arm wrapped around me like I’m a possession, his lips chewing on my neck.

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