That reminded me—I’d need something to hold my phone, so I grabbed a simple black clutch from the closet.
I’d just stepped into the bedroom again when the doors opened, and Ethan strode in like a man who owned the world.
He wore a superbly tailored black tuxedo—pants, two-button jacket, and bow tie—that accentuated his lean frame. He’d slicked back his thick golden hair, tying it at the nape of his neck, which enhanced his already striking features—cheekbones cut from marble, sculpted lips, piercing eyes.
He didn’t catch our appreciative looks, because his gaze was on his watch. “I hope you’re ready, because we’re already behind.”
“Ahem,” Lindsey said. “Sire?”
At the sound of her voice, he looked up, his gaze shifting from Lindsey to me, his eyes going enormous. “Sentinel.”
Lindsey lifted a finger, pointed it at the door. “And I’m just going to take that as my cue to leave. You know, before the panting and heavy petting.”
Neither of us said a word as she slipped out.
Ethan took a step forward, then another. “I am . . . speechless. You look absolutely beautiful. Statuesque. Exotic. Poetic. Not that you aren’t usually beautiful, but this is . . .”
“Different,” I finished with a smile.
“Yes. Different.” He touched a lock of hair, spun the curl around his finger. “Another side of you, of my dedicated Sentinel.”
He lifted my hand, turned my palm, pressed his lips to the pulse in my wrist. The kiss—the connection, the love, the magic—sent sensation up my arm, down my spine again.
“You look very handsome, too.”
He arched an eyebrow with obviously wicked intent. “Do I?”
“You know you do, so don’t pretend otherwise. You look like a prince.”
He laughed heartily. “I am very much not—was not ever—a prince. I was, and remain, a soldier.” He squeezed my hand. “Your soldier, as you are mine.”
“Then we fit very well. We should probably go.”
Ethan nodded, picked up our scabbarded katanas from the side table. “Just in case,” he said. “We’ll leave them in the car.”
That reminded me—and I went back to the bureau, grabbed my dagger from the top drawer, and stuffed it into the handbag.
“You’ve got a weapon on you?” I asked, looking him over. I sensed the vague vibration of magic, but if he had a blade hidden anywhere, he’d done a very good job of it.
“Dagger and a small throwing knife I borrowed from the arsenal,” he said as we headed toward the door.
“Ooh,” I said, glancing up at him. “I’ve always wanted to try those. How’s the weight?”
“Rather fantastic,” Ethan said. “You should have Malik teach you how to use them. He’s very skilled. And he knows it.”
Both good facts to file away, I thought with a smile.
When we reached the stairs, I handed my clutch to Ethan.
He gave it the same look he might have given bad fish. “I’m not going to carry your purse.”
“Then you’ll have to carry me down the stairs.” I took the handrail in my right hand, picked up the skirt’s flare in my left. Took one careful step, then the next, sensed him descend with resignation behind me.
“Yes, a Master has to occasionally carry a purse,” I said, anticipating his objection. “Just as a Sentinel must occasionally wear a very expensive dress.”
“Did you make contact with Jonah?” he asked, catching up to walk beside me.
“He’s going to keep an eye out for Balthasar.” I opted not to tell him about Jonah’s request. Both of us being angry at him wasn’t likely to accomplish much.
Luc was alone in the foyer when we reached it, the supplicants already gone for the evening. He worked on his phone, tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, and looked up at the sound of our footsteps.
His eyes widened appreciatively as he took in my dress, heels, hair. “You look beautiful.”
Ethan beat me to a response. “Thank you. But you should compliment Merit as well. She cleans up nicely.”
Luc snorted, glanced at me. “And you don’t look half-bad yourself, Sentinel.”
“Thank you, Luc. He’s just jealous. He prefers to be the arm candy.”
“I think you’ll both do,” Luc assured.
“Anything?” Ethan asked, the question clear, even if unspoken.
Luc shook his head. “Quiet as a mouse, still as a rock.”
I knew that line, had played the game in elementary school, a ploy to keep children still and quiet.
“I have an idea,” Ethan said, “and I’d like your thoughts, your analysis.”
Luc put his phone away, put his hands on his hips. “I’m listening.”
“Disavowal.”
“All right, all right, all right,” Luc said with a grin. “I like an aggressive strategy.”
I actually recognized that movie reference—an unusual win for Luc—but let the applause pass, since we were short on time.
“I’ll talk to Malik, have the Librarian look into it.”
Ethan nodded. “Brody’s driving?”
“He’s the best defensive driver we’ve got. He’s waiting at the gate. I’m glad to see you’ve got weapons,” he added, gesturing toward the katanas. “Although I do wonder about the purse.”
“It’s hers,” Ethan said, handing it back to me. I supposed he expected I’d make the steps in front of Cadogan House single-handedly.
He must have guessed the line of my thoughts. I’ll hoist you over my shoulder if you can’t make it down three steps.
I’d make it just fine.
“Be careful,” Luc said. “And, Sentinel? Try to have a good time.”
I’d be at a fancy party in a fancy dress with my father and his fancy friends, while my boyfriend’s narcissistic creator roamed Chicago. What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
The Reed house was a mansion of the old-school Chicago variety, located in the city’s Prairie Avenue Historic District, a neighborhood south of downtown that housed some of the city’s finest architecture. Reed’s house, a monolith of stone with a sharply pointed red roof, had been built in 1885 for the owner of a successful mail-order company based in Chicago. The house formed a squared, elongated C, the open side closed with a long stone wall, creating a courtyard in the middle.