Page 63 of Mistress of Lies

Isaac stepped closer, cupping her chin and tilting her head up. He ran his thumb across her cheek, and he was close enough for her to smell the wine on his breath. “They’re all fools if they can’t see you.”

Her heart stopped, and she knew they were standing on the precipice of a mistake. “You’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk,” he said, leaning closer and catching her mouth with his. His hands found her back—large and warm, she could feel the press of them through the thin material of her corset—and he was pulling her close, pressing her against him. Her hands landed on his waist without her even making the decision, old instincts flaring to life, and he dipped his face down.

As he caught her lips with hers.

As she lifted herself up on her tiptoes to meet him halfway.

He kissed her roughly, desperately, one hand rising to tangle in her hair, pulling her back so that he could dominate the kiss, holding her in place as he licked into her mouth like he could wipe away the last few years with the pressure of it.

And though it lit her up like a fire, heat rising low in her core as it forced a whine from her throat, she could still taste the undercurrent of alcohol on his tongue. A bitter reminder that, as hungry as he was for her, this was an indulgence that he might not make sober.

It was always like this with him, stealing her affections in the shadows. He was so cautious about his reputation, his goals, his plans, walking that careful line between taking what he wanted and doing what was expected of him.

She pulled back, though it was the last thing she wanted, though she ached for him to keep touching her, and whispered, “Not like this.” Isaac dropped her, looking up at her with such pain in his eyes, old wounds ripped open, and she forced herself to be cruel. “This is your problem, Isaac. You don’t know what you want. You never did. And until you do this cannot happen.”

He turned away, and she wasn’t sure what he was going to do. But he just whispered, “You’re right,” and slumped forward, curling in on himself. He wasn’t angry, she realized. He was shattered.

“Fuck, Isaac.” She didn’t push him away, and after a second’s deliberation, she whispered. “Talk to me.”

Isaac just stared blankly ahead, his dark eyes cold and empty. “It’s nothing, Shan.”

“Clearly.”

“It’s been a lot,” he said, at last. “I’ve worked so hard, sacrificing so much.”

She bit her lip, watching him as he struggled for words. He had given up everything to become the man the King needed him to be, including her. But there was something more going on, even if he wouldn’t say it. She knew him well enough to recognize that. “What has he threatened?”

He flinched, spinning away from her. “You know nothing, Shan.”

“Then tell me!”

Isaac stood, staring at her, his chest heaving as he warred with himself. She wanted to reach out, to grab him and shake him till he saw sense. It had been years, yes, but there was still something here, and perhaps they could claw their way back to it—together.

If they both learned to trust just a little bit.

But he turned away, his expression cold and grave, and that tiny spark of hope died in her chest.

“I should go,” Isaac said. “I am sorry, though.” He trailed his fingers down her arm one last time. “About that… well. Goodnight.”

She said nothing in response, waiting till he was gone, then collapsed onto the floor. This day was altogether too much, and she needed a few moments just to breathe. Blood and steel, she was a horrible cliché of a woman, to be reduced so because of a man, and she hated herself for it. So she made a decision—if he couldn’t reach for her, she wouldn’t reach for him.

She had wasted enough of her life on Isaac de la Cruz.

She didn’t let herself linger. She allowed herself three long, deep breaths, and then pushed herself back to her feet.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Samuel

Several days after his meeting with Isaac, Samuel was summoned to meet with Shan. The footman showed Samuel in, directing him to an area of the LeClaire townhouse that he had not yet explored. It was ridiculous, really, how many rooms these houses had—far more than any family would need. But at least Shan had her brother, so it couldn’t be as lonely as the sterile place he now called home, just him and the servants who didn’t know how to treat him, tiptoeing around him like his kindness was just a mask and his true nature—his Aberforth nature—would soon rear its ugly head.

There were only a handful of people in this new life who treated him like a person, and one of them appeared before him. Shan took him by the hand, throwing a coy smile over her shoulder as she led him on. They could have been lovers heading for a secret tryst, or two friends preparing for a twisted scheme. For the briefest second, Samuel let himself believe that was true. That Shan was interested in him for who he was, not simply the blood in his veins.

It was a sweet lie, but Samuel was too cruel to allow it more than a breath to flourish. He shoved it all aside to focus on the reason he was here—to discuss the task the Eternal King had given them: murder and mystery and bloodshed.

But Shan didn’t lead him to a study or a library, as expected, but to her own Blood Working laboratory. He recognized the same instruments the Eternal King had in his, though he didn’t know their names, strange and shining along the walls. But there was more than that—everywhere he looked he found signs of Shan. They were in the books and journals scattered around the room, notes jammed in between the pages. There were diagrams of the human body that stripped away the skin to reveal the veins beneath, with annotations scribbled in an ever more familiar hand, and Samuel stepped forward to read Shan’s theories of magic.