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  The man bent his head slightly toward me. His voice was deep and quiet. “Do you need help?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Do you need help?” he repeated quietly. “One word, and I’ll take you out of here and none of them can stop me. I’ll make sure you have access to a doctor, a safe place to stay, and a therapist to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like and will help. ”

  The pieces clicked in my head. The bruise. Of course. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

  “You don’t know me. It’s difficult to trust me because I’m a man and a stranger. The woman speaking with Augustine is my aunt. The woman across the floor in the white-and-purple gown is my sister. Either of them will vouch for me. Let me help you.”

  “Thank you,” I told him. “On behalf of every woman here. But I’m a private investigator. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse. This is a work-related injury and the man who put his hands on me is dead.”

  The man studied me for a long moment and slid a card into my hand. “If you decide that the injury isn’t work related, call me.”

  Augustine turned toward us.

  The man gave him a hard stare and walked away. I glanced at the card. It was solid black, with the initials ML embossed on one side in silver and a phone number on the other.

  “Do you know who that was?” Augustine asked.

  “No.”

  “Michael Latimer. Very powerful, very dangerous.”

  “He wasn’t on my list.”

  “He was supposed to be in France for the next month. What did he want?”

  There was no harm in telling him. “He thought I was a victim of domestic violence. He offered to help.”

  “I had no idea he cared.” Augustine narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

  Men and women drifted by us as the announcer kept reciting a measured litany of names. So-and-so of House so-and-so. So-and-spouse of House Whatever. I saw Cornelius next to a woman who could have been his sister. He looked at me in passing as if he had no idea who I was and I returned his gaze in the exact same way.

  Minutes drifted by.

  I turned and saw Gabriel Baranovsky on the second floor above us talking to an older Asian man. Two large men with shoulders so broad they looked almost square in their expensive suits waited calmly nearby. Bodyguards.

  According to our background check, Baranovsky was fifty-eight. He wore the years well. His build, slender, almost slight, pointed to a man who was either a habitual runner or had an iron will when it came to food. His dark hair fell in a loose wavy mane, framing an angular intelligent face with a long nose, narrow chin, and large eyes. I had studied his picture from the files. You couldn’t tell from here, but he had remarkable eyes, light brown like whiskey and possessing a kind of sorrowful, wise expression. The rest of him was perfectly ordinary, but the eyes elevated his face, transforming him into someone unusual, someone you would want to talk to because you were sure he would have something unique to say. The eyes of the man who looked into the future. No wonder he collected women.

  And he wasn’t looking at me at all.

  The announcer’s voice faltered and for once I tuned into it.

  “Connor Rogan of House Rogan.”

  The floor around us became still and quiet. On the second floor Baranovsky pivoted toward the door, frowning. The pause lasted only a couple of moments, the slow drift of bodies and hum of conversation resuming, but now the voices were lower and the seemingly casual movement had acquired a definite direction as the attendees tried to clear the middle of the floor without looking like they were tripping over their feet.

  Rogan walked into the hall. He wore a black suit, but the way they looked at him, he might as well have marched into the room in full armor. He’d shaved and brushed his hair, but the circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he probably hadn’t slept last night. A scowl hardened his face. He looked like he would murder anyone who got in his way.

  One half of me wanted to punch him in the face for buying up my debts. The other half wanted to march into his path and chew him out for not sleeping. If this was love, then love was the most complicated emotion I had ever felt.

  He saw me. Surprise flickered in his eyes and for a moment he was too stunned to hide it. The dress was worth every penny.

  Rogan altered his course. Across the room Michael Latimer watched him quietly. The crowd’s reactions split. Most faces turned worried. A few others, men and women both, watched him the way Latimer did, not afraid but ready. They were all predators who’d agreed to play nice for one night and now they weren’t sure if the beast with the biggest fangs in the room would follow the rules.

  Rogan crashed to a halt before me and held out his hand without saying a word. I didn’t dare to check if Baranovsky was watching but damn near everybody in the room was. Their stares pinned me down like daggers.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hand in his.

  He turned smoothly, sliding my hand down to rest on his elbow. We walked together up the stairs. I felt light-headed.

  If I tripped now, I would never live it down.

  We reached the top and Rogan turned left, away from Baranovsky, and back along the second floor. Ahead an open door led outside to a balcony framed with planters of roses, their fat blossoms a dark red, almost purple. Rogan walked through. The cold evening air washed over us in a rush.

  I remembered how to breathe.

  “Did you have to be so obvious about it?” I ground out.

  “I warned you.” His voice was cold, his face distant. He was looking me over. “You wanted to catch his attention.”

  I turned away from him and looked at the garden below. No man should have a garden blooming in winter but somehow Baranovsky had managed. Shrubs with yellow blossoms framed the whorls of garden paths; tall spires of unfamiliar plants with white triangular flowers beckoned; and roses, lots and lots of roses, in every shade from white to red filled the flower beds. Between them small gazebos offered a place to rest and enjoy the view. Bright canvas canopies, triangular and stretched tight into slightly curved shapes, like sails of some galleon, shielded parts of the walkways between them. The rest of the house curved into the distance, hugging the garden’s edge.

  Rogan said nothing. Fine. We could just stand here and say nothing.

  A gust of wind came. I hugged my cold shoulders. Evening gowns weren’t designed for dramatically running out onto strange balconies in the middle of winter nights.

  Rogan pulled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

  I brushed it away. “Don’t.”

  “Nevada, you’re cold.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s a damn jacket,” he growled.

  I squinted at him. “What’s the catch?”

  “What?” Irritation vibrated in his voice.

  “What’s the catch with the jacket? What will it cost me? You keep chipping away at my independence every time you try to ‘take care’ of me, so I’d rather know the price in advance.”

  He swore.

  “Colorful, but not very informative.” My teeth chattered. I clamped them together and my knees started shaking. Great.

  “Take the jacket.”

  “No.”

  We stared at each other. It was good that stares weren’t swords or we would’ve had a duel right here on the balcony.

  “You can go back now,” I told him. “I’m sure he’ll come and see what all the fuss was about if you leave.”

  “I’ll leave when I’m damned good and ready.”

  Judging by the set of his jaw, he wouldn’t budge and he was too big for me to shove him off the balcony into the roses down below. Although it would be tempting to try.

  “I know about Castra.” Let’s see him deal with that one.

  He didn’t react. “How?”

  “Augustine made your people during one of the exchanges they secured.”

  “Ah.” He grimaced. “Augustine started ta
king interest in my affairs after Pierce’s idiocy. I’ve invested in a canine unit to account for that possibility. He may change his appearance but he can’t change his scent. It seems I didn’t do it soon enough.”

  “What deals do you secure? Who are your clients? Drug dealers? Murderers?”

  “Murderers, yes. But only if their name is attached to a House. I’ve never secured a drug transaction. I know of the underworld, and it knows of my people. We pass each other like two strangers on the street, aware but never interacting, and that’s the way I like to keep it.”

  True. “Why do you do it?”

  “Information,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “I exist outside of Prime society by choice, but I know more about them than those who are entrenched in it. Information gives me power, and when necessary, I use it.”

  Another gust of wind hit me. If Baranovsky didn’t show up in the next two minutes, I’d freeze to death.

  Rogan glanced at the garden. A canvas canopy tore from the rest, shot toward us, and wrapped the balcony on the left side, shielding us from the wind. In response a dark shadow shifted behind the window on the third floor, about five hundred yards from us, across the garden. Rogan’s gaze checked the window and he turned away. He saw it too. We were being watched, probably by someone with a sniper rifle.

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about. I refused your jacket, so you went over my head. You aren’t taking my wishes into consideration. At all.”

  “You want to be cold?” He stared at me.

  “Yes.” And that sounded stupid. I sighed at myself.

  “Nevada, we both know that you’re freezing. I can hear your teeth clicking. If you’re doing this to prove a point, I already understand it. This is childish.”

  I faced him. “It’s not childish, Connor. You’re trying to take over my life. You do things for me, even when I specifically ask you not to, because you feel you know better. I’m desperately fighting for my independence and my boundaries, because otherwise there will be no me left. There will be just you and I’ll become an accessory.”

  Rogan turned and half closed a mirrored door behind us. The glass caught my reflection. The black dress sheathed me like armor. My blond hair crowned my head. The look on my face brought it home: there was something defiant and almost vicious in my eyes. I barely recognized myself.

  I didn’t like it.

  Rogan moved to stand behind me, his resolute face tinted with regret. “What do you see?”

  “I see me in a leased dress.”

  “I see a Prime.”

  True. He meant it. Breath caught in my throat. Deep down I had known it. I just didn’t want to deal with all the things that title meant.

  His voice was quiet. “This isn’t you playing dress-up. This is you, Nevada. This is what you truly are.”

  Why did he sound like he was hammering nails into his own coffin?

  “You must’ve realized it by now. It can’t be that much of a surprise,” he said, his voice quiet. “Augustine knows it too. He isn’t an idiot. Sooner or later he’ll try to lock you into vassalage. He’ll try to offer you a deal, probably what will seem like a great sum of money attached to handcuffs and a chain. In reality, whatever he offers you will be a pittance. If he could lock you in, your value to House Montgomery would be enormous. Your value to any House would be beyond measure, especially if you don’t know what you are and you submit, allowing yourself to be controlled and used.”

  Like offering me over a million dollars to walk away from everything I’d built. My instincts had been right, but the trap did prove so tempting.

  Rogan stepped toward me and gently draped the jacket over me. The heavy warm fabric felt heavenly on my icicle shoulders. He loomed behind me, grim and slightly scary.

  “Your debts are like this jacket, Nevada. A small favor that costs nothing. You don’t yet realize how infinitesimal their total amount is, because you’re still clinging to the illusion of being ordinary. Soon you’ll make that money in a blink. You’re an emerging Prime and it’s a dangerous time for you. People will use you, manipulate you, pressure you. Everyone will want a piece of you. I simply shielded one of your pressure points until you were ready to shield it on your own.”

  If I took everything he said at face value, it meant that he was guarding me. Protecting me. If he expected anything in return, he hasn’t said what it was. But nothing in the world of Primes was free.

  “What other measures have you taken for my safety?” I asked.

  “You know everything I’ve done.”

  True.

  “I didn’t do it to control you. I did it because you were vulnerable.”

  “Did anyone attempt to purchase my mortgage from you?”

  “Yes.”

  True. “Who and when?”

  “A boutique bank, yesterday. My people are tracking it down. We’ll know who’s behind it in the next twenty-four hours.”

  I had a strong feeling it would lead back to House Montgomery. “Why do you care what happens to me, Rogan?”

  “It amuses me.” Neither his voice, nor his face betrayed any delight.

  “Really, Connor?” I turned and looked into his eyes. My magic licked him and liked the taste.

  “If you do this to a member of a House, it’s a declaration of war,” he warned, his eyes dark. “Keep your magic to yourself.”

  “Then answer the question so I don’t have to go to war with you.”

  Rogan turned and walked away, leaving me standing wrapped in his jacket.

  I pulled the jacket tighter around myself and looked back at the garden. If we had calculated correctly, Baranovsky would approach me.

  Measured steps broke the silence behind me. Someone walked out onto the balcony and leaned on the rail next to me. I turned my head. Baranovsky looked at me with his remarkable eyes. In the hallway, the two bodyguards waited, far enough to not obviously intrude on the conversation but close enough to shoot me in the head and not miss. I pretended not to see them and turned back to the garden.

  “Enjoying the brisk air?” Baranovsky asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I wanted to babble to ease off the pressure, but the more we spoke, the less mysterious I would seem.

  We stood in silence.

  “A woman of few words,” he said. “A rarity.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “You’re too sophisticated for that remark.”

  A self-deprecating smile stretched his lips. “What makes you think that?”

  “You’re a collector. You value each item in your collection for its unique charm. A broad generalization, especially one so ham-fisted, would be out of character for a connoisseur.”

  His eyes narrowed. He was looking at the bruise on my neck. “And you believe me to be one?”

  “You had an affair with Elena de Trevino, a woman with perfect recall, who can reproduce every wrong thing you have ever said to her.”

  “One could say every woman possesses such power.”

  I shook my head. “No, we only remember things that emotionally wound us. Elena remembered everything.”

  Baranovsky shook his head, smiling. “This is a dangerous conversation.”

  “You’re right. You should save yourself and gracefully retreat.”

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice holding a note of wonder.

  Got him. Now I just had to keep him. “And guest.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s how I was announced. And guest, one of many. Nameless, anonymous, here for one night, and then gone.”

  “But hardly forgotten.”

  I looked back at the garden.

  “Do you know why I’m drawn to roses?” he asked.

  “You like their thorns?” He couldn’t possibly be this lame.

  “No. Each seedling is unique. Two seeds from the same cross, originating from the same two parent plants, will show variation in color, in the shape of petals, in the whorls themselves, even in how long the bloom will last.�
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  “See? A connoisseur of dangerous women and flowers with thorns.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” he said, still smiling.

  “Only a little.”

  He offered me his arm. “Walk with me.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re right—this conversation is too dangerous for you.”

  “Should I be worried about Rogan?” A mischievous light sparked in his eyes. Gabriel Baranovsky liked walking a tight rope.

  “You should be worried about me.” I gave him a sad smile and for once actually meant it. “I’m a monster of a different kind. I think some would prefer Rogan over me.”

  “What do you do?”

  Wouldn’t you like to know? “Do you miss Elena?”

  “Yes.”

  Truth. My magic wrapped him, saturating the air but not touching. I could almost sense the hesitation in his words, something he was trying to hide. His will was strong, but unlike Rogan’s steel-hard determination, Baranovsky seemed flexible. Almost pliant. I could try to nudge him toward the right answers. Not enough pressure to compel a direct reply, but just enough to keep him talking more than he would have otherwise. I had never done it before.

  If he sensed my magic, he would have me killed. Baranovsky wasn’t a combat Prime, so he would rely on more conventional means of security and he would have a great deal of it, because currently his house was full of people who shot lightning from their fingertips and belched fire. I knew for sure there was one sniper in the window. There were likely to be more in the garden. If I grabbed him with my power and made him tell me what I wanted to know, I’d never make it out of this gala alive.

  “We were more than lovers,” he said. “We were friends.”

  “Does it bother you that she died?” I kept pushing, trying to stay subtle, but keeping him on the balcony with me.

  He leaned back on the rail and let out a sigh. “It’s the way of our universe. A never-ending chain of cannibalism: the stronger prey on the weaker only to become prey in return. The only way to win the game is to not play.”

  “Do you know why they killed her?”

  “No.”