Page 45 of Wicked Chains
At exactly two, Ollie emerges through a side door, wiping sweat from his forehead. He startles when he sees me lurking.
"Miss? What are you doing here?"
I reveal the plate with a flourish. "Brought you something. Quick, before someone sees."
His eyes widen. "I can't—if they catch me?—"
"They won't. I'll keep watch." I press the plate into his hands. "Come on. This stuff is actually pretty good."
Hesitantly, Ollie takes a bite of the beef. His eyes close briefly in appreciation. "Oh wow."
"Right? Now try the lobster."
He does, and a smile breaks across his face. "This is incredible."
"The perks of being disgustingly rich and powerful, I guess. Great food."
Ollie chews thoughtfully. "Thank you. No one's ever..." He trails off, looking embarrassed.
"Don't mention it." I shrug, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Consider it my small rebellion against this whole ridiculous spectacle."
"Still. It's kind of you."
I flush, waving away his thanks. "Just eat before your break's over. And hide that plate when you're done. Can't have evidence of our food heist."
Ollie grins, transforming his tired face. "You should get back before they miss you."
"Trust me, nobody's missing me out there." But I do need to return. Helena's already looking for reasons to punish me. "I'll see you around."
As I walk back, I brace myself to reenter the circus of excessive consumption and extravagant waste. At least I managed to do one useful thing today.
But as I step back into the gleaming, glittering crowd of people who belong here in a way I never will, that hollow feeling returns to my chest.
Twenty-One
Rose
Back in the Great Hall, I'm on my fourth—or is it fifth?—glass of champagne, and the room has taken on a slightly softer focus. My head feels pleasantly buzzy, like there's a swarm of bees between my ears, but the happy kind of bees, not the angry ones. I lean against a pillar and survey the scene through narrowed eyes. God, these people are exhausting. Lucien glides through the crowd like he was born for this, which I guess he probably was, back when people still used chamber pots and died of scurvy.
He's wearing a charcoal suit that is impeccably tailored to his tall frame. A group of mothers have cornered him, and even from here I can see their greedy smiles, the way they touch his arm or toss their hair. Lucien responds with just the right amount of charm, enough to be polite, not enough to encourage. Every so often, his crimson eyes scan the room, and they linger on me for half a second before moving on.
I take another sip of champagne and push off from my pillar.
"Well, well, if it isn't the famous Rose Smith." I turn to find myself face to face with what has to be Thorne's father. Same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same look of entitled disdain. He's flanked by Thorne and a thin woman who must be her mother.
"Famous?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "I think you've confused me with someone else."
"Not at all." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You're the witch who's caused quite the stir. The one with the special bloodline."
Thorne smirks beside him. "Daddy's on the board of trustees. He knows everything that happens here."
"And everything about everyone," her mother adds, looking me up and down like I'm poo stuck to her shoe. "Though I must say, you're not what I expected."
"Sorry to disappoint," I say, my tongue loosened by champagne.
Mr. Hawthorne's expression hardens.
"I told you, Daddy," Thorne says, voice dripping with fake concern. "She's completely wild. No manners at all. But what can you expect with her background."
