Of Wicked Blood (The Quatrefoil Chronicles #1) - Olivia Wildenstein Page 0,117

to come right out and ask him if he’s truly a glorified gigolo hangs on the tip of my tongue, but he’ll be gone in a week. Maybe sooner depending on the temperamental Quatrefoil. So instead I go with, “Look, I’ve thought about it and don’t want to start anything that has no chance of going anywhere.” Not the entire truth but entirely true.

“So you’re going to shut me out until I leave?”

My pulse bangs against my tensed forearms, against my strained neck. I don’t know how to respond so I keep quiet.

“Is this because of . . . what happened at the lake?” His voice breaks.

I may not want to be with him, but I can’t have him thinking it has anything to do with little Emilie. The guilt would be too much. “No.”

He’s quiet a second, then his brows dip over his eyes, hooding them further. “Your father said something to you, didn’t he?”

I swallow. How the heck did he guess?

“Can I at least know what I’ve been accused of? I’m no doubt guilty of it, but color me curious.”

My nostrils flare in distress, and the scent of spice and black coffee leaps off his skin and streaks straight into my chest. “I don’t think discussing it is necessary, Slate. Soon you’ll be gone and—”

“Cadence, just rip the goddamn Band-Aid off.”

“Fine.” My arms stiffen some more. “I heard you seduce women to extort them. And when I say seduce, I mean . . .” I don’t finish. I can’t.

His pupils seem to spread although his irises are so dark and the kitchen lighting so weak, it could be my imagination. “Your father told you that?”

“Yes.”

For a full minute, we both stay silent, even though, on the inside, I’m screaming, “Is it true?”

Behind Slate’s squared shoulders, I catch Charlotte and her friend Jasmine trying to get past Bastian, who’s doing a marvelous job at fencing them off with polite questions about their classes and degrees.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s your life.”

“It is my life. My business.” He sounds annoyed but neither repentant nor stunned. “But it’s also my business.”

My lips pop around a shocked gasp. “So it’s true?”

He clenches his jaw.

“Good to know.” I go to sidestep him, but he shifts, blocking my escape.

“In case you’re wondering if that’s why I kissed you, Cadence, it’s not.”

I crane my neck. “The only thing I’d hate to lose is my bracelet.” My bracelet, whose prongs are currently digging unpleasantly into my skin, whose emerald quatrefoil charm glitters quietly. “So if you do decide to take something before you leave, at least have the decency to leave me that.”

And then I shove past him, heat engulfing my eyes, hating that Papa was actually right.

Hating that I kissed a mouth used on unsuspecting women to divest them of their prized possessions.

Alma catches up to me right as I reach the front door.

She shoots me a remorseful smile. “Arctic fox?”

“Yeah.” I try to dig my jacket off the coat hanger, but all the fabrics blur together. Finally I spot silver and pull. Six coats fall. My jacket is among them. Alma gently tugs me away from creating a larger massacre, digs out my jacket, then gathers the fallen garments and lobs them back onto the coat hanger.

A tear trickles out just as a hand circles my bicep.

“Cadence. What happened? What did Slate do?” Adrien’s hazel eyes are narrowed and murderous.

“N-nothing.”

“Bullshit. What did the asshole do?”

I gape at Adrien, so unused to hearing him swear. “Really. It’s nothing.”

“You’re crying, Cadence. What. Did. He. Do?”

“I’m overreacting.”

“Cadence.”

“I promise. I am. I swear he hasn’t done anything. Not to me.”

“But to someone else?”

“Adrien, please . . . not here. People are staring.”

“I don’t care about any of these people. The only person I care about is you.”

And Charlotte.

I want to correct him but don’t, because he obviously doesn’t realize he’s singled me out.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go outside, so you can—”

A shrill scream rents the living room, cutting him off. Only the music remains, thumping along with my pulse.

Our bodies go rigid as we spin around and see Charlotte’s navel-baring pink angora sweater catch fire.

35

Slate

Charlotte drops the champagne bottle she’s fitted with a giant sparkler and starts swatting at her sweater. Brume has messed me up so much that, for a full five seconds, seeing a girl on fire doesn’t strike me as odd.

My first reaction is, Huh? This is entertaining.

But then I’m like, Oh, fuck!

Adrien’s reaction is instant. In a matter of seconds, he hurdles over his