West.
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“You gave this to her?” Arthur asked, raising the phone. My heart pounded against my ribcage, waiting for West to give me up to his father.
West clenched his jaw. “Of course.”
Something passed between them.
Unsaid.
I rubbed my wrist as West wrapped his arm around my waist. Arthur focused on me, and for the first time all night I was glad for the opaque veil.
“Your mistress could use better training,” Arthur said.
“We had to rush it.”
Arthur made a sound of understanding in his throat. “I can help with that.”
West’s grip on my waist tightened, barely. “We’ll see.”
West steered me away from his father, down near the croquembouche. I could feel Arthur’s eyes on us.
West stopped in a small alcove, and nerves fluttered in my chest. From the angle, only West could be seen. I was hidden from the party, hidden from anyone who might think to stop what came next.
“West—”
West gripped my wrist, yanking me to him. “Don’t go near my parents if I’m not around—don’t even stand in the same room with them. Got it?”
My brow furrowed. “Why do you care?”
West stared at me, a look too close to concern on his features. His grip loosened on my wrist, and he turned it over, examining the flesh.
“Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”
Why do you care?
West drew an arc with his thumb along my flesh, and traitorous shivers rose in its wake.
“Story, I—”
West broke off, his touch gone, as he went flying into the croquembouche.
Shrieks sounded, socialites scattered to get out of the way. My heart stuttered. Halted. Stopped completely.
Grayson.
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Grayson.” West brushed a flake of frosting off his suit. “They let you out?”
Let him out?
Grayson lifted his head, searching for me among the gathered crowd. I stepped forward, out of the alcove, certain Grayson would recognize me, see me even behind the veil. Even still, I raised a hand to lift the gauzy material. So maybe that’s why I was pulled away, pulled deeper into the crowd, and hidden behind another man.
Maybe he had the same idea.
“Good evening, Story.”