Page 5 of The Robin on the Oak Throne

So she pulled back and said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

He waved a hand around the closet. “No. I certainly had other plans tonight than to be stuck in a broom cupboard.”

“You’re the one who stuffed me in here.”

“You werecaught,” he snarled like it was an offense.

And it was. After all, she prided herself on her stealth.

“I was doing fine before you interfered.”

He leaned back against the doorframe with that damn smirk on his lips. “You could simply say thank you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Of that I’m certain,” he said with bite.

“What are you even doing here?” she asked again in exasperation.

“I was invited.”

“Invited,” Kierse scoffed. “There’s no way in hell that you wouldacceptan invitation to a party like this withoutreason.”

She reassessed him. Graves was a master warlock with the ability to read the immediate thoughts of anyone he touched—except Kierse. He used that magic to make his business a network of secrets and blackmail to shape the world around him. If he was in Versailles on business, then he was here to get information.

“Who exactly do you want answers from?”

“Currently? You,” he purred, stepping into her orbit and tilting her off axis. “If your assessment of me is that I’m here on business, then should I expect that you are here to steal something?”

Her eyes locked onto his, and she knew. In his five-month absence, she’d tried to imagine that Graves wasn’t trailing her every move. That she was really on her own as she had asked to be. But no, of course not. She knew exactly how he worked. It shouldn’t have surprised her. And yet…

“You knew I’d be here.”

He slid gloved hands into his pockets as if he had not a care in the world. Answer enough. She wanted to swear at him, but arguing was futile. He would always think he was in the right. Wasn’t that part of the problem?

“Whatever you’re planning, it isn’t going to work.”

“Why do you think I’m planning something?” Kierse asked.

“Because you’realwaysplanning something.” His words were sharp, but his eyes were amused. As if she was unaware that he understood her as well as she had believed she understood him.

“Pot meet kettle.” She pushed against him, reaching for the doorknob.

“Your skirt is ripped,” he said. “There’s dirt under your nails. One knee is red. Your hair is askew.”

“So?” she countered.

He reached up and moved a piece of her hair back into order. His finger lingered on the visibly round ear as if he was trying to see through the glamour to the pointed Fae ear.

“You’ve already stolen what you were here for, haven’t you?”

She released a harsh sigh. “It wasn’t there,” she finally admitted.

“And what was it?”

She ground her teeth together. “As if you don’t already know.”

“Does it please you to think I am omniscient?”

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