The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,55

who she was behind this mask? Did they know one another? How many of them would she pass on the street and recognize as an acquaintance without knowing what they got up to at night?

How many of these people were responsible for the Mont Claire Massacre, or knew about it and did nothing?

She suppressed a shudder at the very thought, suddenly very aware of how alone she was.

Serana knew of her whereabouts, of course, and so did the Rogues, but that would do blessed little to help her if things went sideways.

She’d made peace with her fate before she’d stepped a foot on the Kenway grounds, so there was only one thing to do.

Plunge into the crowd as if she belonged there and get what she came for.

Walking with an affected air of superiority, she went to a large Moorish fellow who stood taller than most. He had the loveliest, smoothest complexion she’d ever seen, and his shoulders and head gleamed even in the lowest of light.

She did her best not to peek … down below and failed utterly. It wasn’t that she’d never seen a naked man before; of course she had. But she’d always averted her eyes. Despite her boldness in so many aspects, the vulnerability of these people made her want to squirm.

Uncertainty tugged at her. Was it disrespectful to be curious? Was it awful to look?

Probably.

But she looked. And she’d be lying if she claimed not to like what she saw. Not just the African with the impressive physique, but also the slim and pale androgynous man with the long waist to match his impressive sex. He contrasted splendidly with a rather square fellow with a wealth of hair, bulky muscle beneath a healthy layer of padding, and what she considered to be a much less intimidating organ.

The women intrigued her, too, all told. The differences and similarities. The placements of their hips and breasts. The abject wickedness of so much flesh on display, and the anonymity her mask provided.

No one knew where her eyes drifted, and there was a certain freedom in that. She’d be lying to claim that freedom didn’t titillate her somewhat.

Even as something primal in her responded to the situation, she shriveled from it, as well.

The others gathered, maybe seventy or so in number, greeted her in reverent whispers. No one called her by name, but they seemed to understand she had a “my lady” status.

She nodded and returned their greetings with a low murmur, somehow feeling that she’d stumbled into a church. She didn’t want to meet the God to whom these people swore fealty. The one who gagged women and blinded men, who displayed them vulnerably and subjected them to objectification.

A familiar feeling swept over her on the tail of that thought.

The breath of a ghost on her back. Not quite chilling, but neither was it warm. Warning bells clanged in her head, in her body.

At least, by now, the sensation was familiar, and always accompanied by a subsequent encounter with Chandler—or whomever he pretended to be at the moment.

Was he here? Was that the danger she sensed?

She’d been doing her utmost not to think of him these past weeks. Not to want. To yearn. To seek him out and …

And what? Apologize? Explain? Confess?

Francesca shook her head and lifted a glass from the proffered tray. The mask she wore left her lower lip exposed, and the goblet conveniently fit to her mouth so she could drink.

She used the sip as an excuse to survey the gathered crowd in low light.

The figures in white were few, maybe seven, and it appeared that some of them intended to make their way toward her, drifting through the river of red like specters swimming upstream through a lake of blood.

Their masks were all the same. Stags. Great, sharp antlers branched from their crowns, holding the hoods in place.

They seemed all like rather large men. Security, perhaps?

“I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

Francesca whirled at the disembodied voice, nearly colliding with the footman from whom she took her wine. Next to him, a figure with the mask of a lion tilted his head down to look at her. He had a high collar behind his cape, as well. And his mane was extraordinary, reminding her of the sun.

Not Chandler. Her shoulders fell.

Luther Kenway.

Francesca did what she always did when she was frightened: She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and bared her teeth.

Figuratively, for now.

“I would have RSVP’d if you’d have preferred, but alas…” She let