Throne of the Fallen

“IF YOU DESIRE another dance with my brother, take it.”

Camilla tore her attention from the man in the emerald mask waltzing across the dance floor and settled it on Synton’s brother.

She hadn’t noticed when they’d first met, but while he shared the same dark hair and bronze skin as Lord Synton, his eyes were a striking shade of charcoal that now nicely matched his mask.

He gave her a secretive smile that she couldn’t help but return.

There was something infectious about him, something that made her want to enjoy his company.

The feeling was a bit unsettling, if Camilla was being honest.

“It’s improper to dance more than twice with one man, Mr. Synton.”

At that, he laughed, the sound filled with genuine delight.

“While I imagine my brother has laid claim to this already, please call me Syn. I think of myself as the premier prince of sin, no matter what my brothers may say.”

Given the devious twinkle in his eye, she could imagine him in that role.

“Very well, Syn. How many brothers do you have?”

“There are seven of us, each more devilishly handsome than the last.”

Seven Synton brothers, God save them all.

And not a one of them lacking in confidence, Camilla would wager.

He leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’re known as Princes of Sin. A title we take very seriously, I assure you.”

Camilla snorted. She didn’t doubt that at all. Though a slight trepidation crept along her spine. Seven Princes of Sin did exist, ruling over a realm called the Seven Circles, though some myths her mother had told her claimed there were once eight.

It couldn’t be…

She studied the man next to her.

“I’ve heard the stories. Let’s say you’re really a Prince of Sin. What do you rule over?”

“If you haven’t guessed already, I must not be a very good prince.”

A frustrating nonanswer. Though Camilla was probably only hoping he and Synton were something other, something more legendary. She wanted an excuse for this irksome attraction. It was far easier to blame it on magic than accept the fact that she liked a scoundrel all on his own.

“Why aren’t you out there dancing?” she asked. “Plenty of ladies keep stealing glances.”

“I much prefer to stir up trouble from the sidelines.”

He turned those unique eyes on the crowd, his smile growing more wicked.

“So much debauchery. It’s good for the soul.”

“Debauchery?”

Syn nodded to the dance floor. “Wickedness.”

Camilla followed his gaze, then sucked in a breath.

Couples who’d been discreetly talking in the shadows of the room had drawn closer together, as if compelled to touch, moving their hands into daring positions on each other’s bodies, their touches hungry and not at all restrained by prying eyes.

Camilla’s attention darted around the room. Those on the dance floor didn’t seem to notice the lapse in propriety. Most were laughing and swaying to the music of the string quartet. They’d all been sampling the drinks, their eyes glassy behind their masks, footsteps unsteady as they whirled.

But around the perimeter, far from the flickering candlelight, a few couples had begun to kiss. Throats, ungloved hands, lips, breasts…

“What on earth…” Camilla couldn’t believe it. She blinked as if that would erase the scene unfolding in the darkest parts of the glorious chamber. Heat crept along her body, inching up her neck, down to her belly.

Beside her, she realized that one masked couple had begun to make love, right up against the wall, the woman’s flushed skin emerging from under her dress as she wrapped a bare leg around her partner’s back. Candles flickered wildly on either side of them until they went out one by one, keeping their secret.

Camilla’s heart thundered in her chest. This couldn’t be truly happening. And yet…

She looked at the silver trays that kept coming, the drinks flowing freely. Had something been added to them, something that lowered inhibitions?

“Well, there’s a complication I didn’t expect,” Syn muttered. “Shall we take a turn about the garden, Miss Antonius?” He abruptly stepped in front of her, attempting to block her view.

But he was too late.

She ducked beneath his arm, watching in fascinated horror as the masked brunette rolled onto her toes and yanked Lord Ashford Synton’s lapels toward her, leaning in for a kiss, right there in front of the entire ballroom. A few couples stopped dancing, lips parting in shock.

At least Camilla wasn’t the only one who’d been rendered speechless.

And yet the cursed lord didn’t immediately disentangle himself from the masked beauty.

Not that Camilla watched for very long—or even long enough to see their lips crash together. The moment leading up to the kiss was all she’d needed to feel ill. Without thinking, she spun on her heel, fleeing the ballroom before she could do something ridiculous.

“Camilla, don’t!”

She ignored whoever called out for her, not wanting anyone to witness her jealousy, and pushed open the doors to the terrace, rushing down the stairs toward the hedge maze.

The damp cold of the autumn air stung her eyes and seeped in through the thin layers of her gown, chilling her to the core.

Camilla welcomed the feeling of ice—she wanted to feel nothing but numbness, to think of nothing but the cold.

Otherwise, she’d recall Synton and the way she’d wanted him to grab her earlier, press his mouth and body to hers until they couldn’t figure out where either of them began or ended.

She wanted to drown in his kiss, submerge herself in untold passion.

Camilla was startled to admit it, even silently to herself.

When he’d danced with her, saving her from Vexley, she’d foolishly thought it meant something. Just like the gown he’d sent. And the paintbrush.

All it meant was that he wanted something from her; he didn’t want her.

Camilla ran as fast as she could, rushing down one row of the hedge maze to the next, her slippers soaking in the dew of the freshly cut grass, icing her toes until each step felt like she was treading across tiny steel blades. The pain helped ease the ache in her chest.

She ran until the viselike grip of jealousy loosened, giving way to annoyance at herself.

Camilla should not suffer for a man who clearly didn’t harbor any secret affection for her.

If Synton didn’t wish to—

One moment the path ahead was clear, and the next she collided with the very man she’d been running from.

Lord Synton held her arms tightly, catching her before she stumbled and fell. Above her, his gaze was glittering and hard in the moonlight. He’d discarded his mask, and with it, any pretense of civility. Whatever looked out from his eyes did not seem human.

Camilla stood still, her pulse thrashing as his dark eyes dropped, taking special care to follow the line of her décolletage, then abruptly flicked back up to trace her jaw, her lips beneath her mask.

If she’d thought his expression was forbidding a moment ago, it was nothing compared to the brutally cold look he gave her now.

“Never show me your envy again, Miss Antonius. It won’t end well.”

“Do not threaten me.”

Camilla shrugged out of his grasp, not bothering to deny her jealousy.

His lips curved into a wolfish grin. “It was a warning.”

A strange, dark energy surrounded him out here, a mixture of shivering violence and burning lust, two opposing forces clashing together like a brewing storm.

Even with the charge sizzling in the air, she had the impression that he was holding himself back, aware of whatever power he wielded and the damage it could cause.

Her chin notched up.

“And if I don’t heed it?” She met his eyes, unwilling to drop her gaze.

There was one strained beat of stillness, then all the control he’d been exuding snapped.

One moment she was standing there before him, the next she was up against the hedge, the evergreen branches poking into her with a delicious hint of pain.

Synton had pressed his entire length to her front, his hand tangled in her hair, his nose buried against her throat, breathing her in. His body was tense, coiled tight.

With a mere flick of his wrist, he had her mask off, sliding its silky ribbons down over her ears, across her cheek, before he tossed it into the dense shrubbery.

He tipped her face higher, seemingly to decide which he’d like to taste first, her lips or the flushed skin of her throat.

She was shocked to realize she wanted him to taste it all.

Synton angled his face closer, his lips tracing a line of fire along her jaw as he brought them slowly to hers, hovering for a moment in which she could taste the hint of bourbon and berries on his breath. Then, at last, his mouth brushed against hers. Tender at first, and then firmly, sending sparks of desire up her spine.

As he withdrew, his teeth tugged needily on her bottom lip.

“Some games should not be played unless you’re certain you can win.” He ran a finger along the edge of her ear, gently settling her hair back into place. “Stoke my sin again and I will show you what it means to lose, Miss Antonius.”

Without another word, he turned, leaving her alone. She could practically hear the thunder of her heart echoing off the hedge maze, followed a second later by the scorching flame of her annoyance. A dramatic mood shift. Once again.

“Damn insufferable ass.”

She took a moment to collect herself, pulling free of the hedge, straightening her gown and fluffing her skirts. Her annoyance only grew as she plucked her mask from the nearby shrub. She picked a few stray leaves from it, the moonlight sparking off the mask to illuminate the abandoned maze each time she shifted it.

Camilla exhaled loudly, glancing back toward the large manor in the distance. She hadn’t realized how far she’d run. Now the warm glow of the windows seemed like distant stars.

Perhaps she should go home. She was no longer in the mood to play Synton’s games.

Holding her mask in one hand, she grabbed her heavy skirt in the other and trudged along silently, looking for the path out of the maze and to the front of the estate.

Surely Lord Edwards and Lady Katherine’s driver would take her home. He could always come back for them.

A twig snapped behind her and she whirled around. A man stepped out from the next pathway, holding his hands up.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Miss Antonius.”

Camilla strained to see him in the dark. “Lord Garrey?”

He stepped closer, hands still up as if to prove he meant no harm.

“You’re a long way from the ballroom.” He glanced around. “Shall I escort you back?”

Camilla’s heart thrummed faster, her instincts warning her that something was off. Lord Garrey’s gaze kept darting around, his head cocked to one side, as if listening.

His behavior wasn’t what it ought to be, given the fact that he’d come upon her alone. He knew just as well as she did how this would look. He should have turned and left her immediately. Yet he lingered, his attention straying to her neck.

“You know we can’t be seen alone. Please,” she said, keeping her voice calm and steady, though inside she felt anything but, “leave before my reputation is ruined.”

“I imagine that would be worth something to you.”

She didn’t like his tone.

“It’s valuable to every woman in Waverly Green, my lord. I’m no different.”

“But you are, aren’t you?” he asked, taking a small step in her direction. “Different.”

This conversation was heading down a road it shouldn’t.

“If you’re referring to running my father’s gallery, then I suppose I am.” She didn’t bother pointing out that society was to blame for more high born women not running a business, that only her circumstances were different.

He nodded, almost absently, then sprang forward, like a fencer. Camilla was caught off guard by the sudden burst of violence.

Before she could fight back, Garrey had clamped a cloth over her face, preventing her from screaming for help. She clawed at him, nails raking down his skin so hard she drew blood.

“Hush,” he said. “This will be over soon.”

He yanked her around, slipping his hand beneath the chain of her necklace, but not jerking it. She whimpered as his grip on her tightened painfully.

“Give me the goddamn locket, Camilla.”

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.

“Don’t make me get rough.”

He tugged at the locket but didn’t use enough force to rip it off. Through the tangle of fear and rage she felt from the assault, this was odd enough to be noticeable. Why go through the trouble of attacking her only to falter now?

Instead, he shoved her down to the ground, pinning her beneath his body. He’d removed his hand from her mouth, but she went still when she saw the glint of metal. Garrey held a dagger to her heart, eyes dark.

“Give me the locket and this will be over.” His voice was low. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will do what I must.”

Seeing the blade pierce her beautiful dress, Camilla raged. She didn’t want to hurt him either, but she, too, would do what she must.

“The locket isn’t worth much money,” she spat. “You won’t pawn it for much.”

“It’s worth more to me than you can imagine.” He motioned to it with the blade. “Give it to me with your own hand. Now.”

“Why? If you want it, take it.”

“Stop playing games, Camilla. Give it over. And be quick about it.”

Camilla’s mind spun. She could give him the locket. Make this encounter end. But it wasn’t simply a necklace, and somehow, some way, Lord Garrey had figured that out.

A plan slowly formed.

“Let me up.” She added a touch of submission to her expression, made her bottom lip quiver. “I’ll have to stand to undo the clasp.”

Lord Garrey looked her over, his expression pinched.

He didn’t believe her, not fully, but she’d seen that wild desperation in his gaze. She knew, too, that he saw what everyone else in Waverly Green did—a young, aristocratic woman who’d been groomed to obey men.

While he might suspect a trap, he’d also been groomed to believe he could handle her.

He got to his feet slowly and offered his hand. His manners were obscene, considering what he’d just done. Camilla bit down on her retort. Instead, as she came to her feet, she wobbled, pretending her heel had broken in the scuffle.

“Oh!” she cried, falling forward, grabbing his arms to steady herself.

Generations of good breeding snapped in, just as she suspected they would. Lord Garrey dropped his dagger, catching her. And she used the movement to bring her knee up between his legs as hard as she could.

“Bitch!”

He doubled over and she attacked again, following him to the ground like a feral beast after a bone. Which, she thought wryly, she sort of was.

But as she drew back, she tripped over her damn gown.

He used the moment of distraction to counterattack.

He kicked her feet out from under her, knocking the breath from her lungs as she fell. Before she could regain her senses, he rolled on top of her, crushing her with his weight.

“Give me the fucking necklace or I swear I’ll kill you.”

His hands were around her throat, squeezing. Little black spots flickered at the edge of her vision, and she thought she tasted blood. Then she realized: she’d bitten her tongue in the fall. The metallic taste filled her mouth, made her gag.

She clawed at his hands again, now slippery with his blood.

“You bitch.” He was in a rage now, his fingers tightening until she was certain he’d break her neck.

She felt around the ground desperately. Something had fallen, something she could… her fingertip stung as she found his fallen blade.

Blackness filled her vision. She had seconds left. Maybe less.

Her hand slipped over the hilt, the blood making it nearly impossible to clasp. She dragged her hand across the grass, succeeding in wiping some of it away.

“No one said you needed to be breathing,” Lord Garrey said, his face a vicious mask of brutality. She had no idea what he meant. Who didn’t say she needed to be breathing?

Maybe he thought she was too far gone to understand.

“Guess you’ll give me the locket willingly when you’re dead.”

As the final air was forced from her lungs, Camilla grasped the dagger and brought it down, sinking it to the hilt into the side of his neck.

She twisted it, baring her teeth in a snarl, tears streaming down her face.

His grip loosened instantly, and his eyes froze open. Then, slowly, he toppled to the side. Camilla could barely see through the tears that were flowing faster now. She shoved and wriggled her way out from beneath him, trembling from the attack and what she’d just done.

She’d killed him.

She glanced at the dagger protruding from his neck, shivering at the sight. Lord Garrey wasn’t exactly dead yet. He was twitching and choking on blood.

“No!” she cried, looking around frantically, then down at her blood-drenched silver-and-white dress. “No, no.”

She grabbed her hair, pulling at the roots, trying to think. How had this happened?

Camilla dropped to her knees, reaching for the dagger, and was hauled back suddenly.

She fought and kicked and screamed.

“Shh. It’s all right.”

Synton’s voice was an instant balm.

His arms were gentle but firm, his heart pounding so hard she felt it through her back, a rhythm hers instantly slowed to follow.

“I’m going to take care of this, all right?” He was far too calm for the scene he’d come upon, holding her head soothingly in place under his chin. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened. Then we’re going to clean you up.”

After a moment, she gave a half nod.

He slowly released her and walked in a small circle to face her.

His gaze darkened when it dropped to her neck. “He did that?”

She nodded, wincing from the pain she was beginning to feel.

Synton glanced over at Lord Garrey, his expression one of pure loathing. He looked like he wanted to take the dagger out and shove it through him a few more times.

He motioned to someone—Alexei, Camilla thought, still dazed—and before she knew it, Lord Garrey’s twitching form was gone.

There was no sign of a skirmish.

No broken hedges or torn-up grass.

Maybe that wasn’t true. How could it be true? Maybe it was all there, and she was incapable of seeing it any longer.

She shook violently, unable to reconcile the deadly turn the night had taken.

Synton pulled her to him again, hugging her against his chest.

“You’re all right,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”

Camilla did as he said, breath ragged as she tried to draw it in slowly.

His hands warmed as they gently passed over her neck, her arms, her gown. Like he was soothing away each injury.

There was nothing untoward about his actions. They offered only comfort and safety.

If Camilla hadn’t been in shock, she might have wondered at the odd sensation flowing over her. Her skin stopped aching, her breathing evened out. The metallic taste in her mouth faded away. Gently, without attracting notice, she slid her hand up to her breastbone, feeling that the locket still rested there. Then she let herself go, leaning into Synton, who just held her in the circle of his arms, waiting for the storm to pass.