Page 91 of Mistress of Lies

She pulled him down, clawing at his clothes now, desperate for him to touch her. He laughed, and she felt suddenly lighter, as if she could float away on the very sound of it. He kissed her deeply, unmindful of his own taste on her lips, as he dipped his hand between her legs, driving into her aching warmth with a roughness that had her gasping. He fucked her relentlessly, twisting his hand so that the heel of his palm pressed up against her clit, falling into that old, familiar rhythm of skin and sweat and pleasure as they both chased the release they were looking for.

Chapter Thirty

Samuel

“Blood and fucking steel.”

Samuel came to a sudden stop, sliding on the damp cobblestones as he narrowly avoided colliding with Anton, who had barreled around the corner like a man possessed. He carried his jacket slung across his shoulders, frowning and exasperated all at once as he looked at Samuel in disgust. “Not you, too.”

He blinked at Anton, his words fading on his lips as Anton rolled his eyes up to the sky, as if begging the universe to grant him patience.

“You’re too late, Aberforth,” Anton spat. “If you’re looking for the comforting arms of my sister, de la Cruz beat you to it.”

Samuel swallowed hard, ignoring the sudden stab of longing that struck through him. Of course Isaac had turned to Shan; he should have realized that himself. If only he had been a little quicker—perhaps met Isaac at the same time, upon the doorstep, then maybe—

But no. He had come here, to the LeClaires’, with blood on his hands. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he so much as blinked, he saw the girl again. The way she had struggled, the blood pouring from her neck as she tried in vain to stop the flow. He hadn’t held the blade, but he had done nothing to stop it, and Samuel knew that it would haunt him for all his days.

It didn’t matter that she had been a traitor, not when her brother was dying. Not when Aeravin could have saved him but chose not to.

And even coming here—even thinking that he could turn to Shan, or to Isaac—was the worst kind of selfishness. They were both better than him and he didn’t want to drag them down into his darkness.

No, this was his burden to bear.

But that was not something he could think about now, not with Anton glaring up at him in anger, defying him to speak.

“I see she is popular tonight” was what he managed, pushing past the tension that had crept up and tightened his throat, and Anton’s face twisted into an ugly grimace. “What of you, Anton? Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Anton replied, though that was a lie if he had ever heard one. “But I’m sorry that I cannot say the same for you. You’ll have to find someone else’s shoulder to cry on. Shan’s is occupied.”

Samuel tried to temper his expression—though he was glad they had each other, he was still so, so lonely—but he must not have been very successful, for Anton sighed, rubbing at his temples. “I’m going to regret this, but have you ever been to a gambling hell, Aberforth?”

“Uh, no?”

“Consider this an education then,” Anton said, stepping up beside him. “Give it a couple of hours and you’ll forget whatever ails you.” He led him across the street, calling for a hack.

“This isn’t necessary,” Samuel began, but fell quiet when Anton shot him a look so harsh that he was reminded, uncomfortably, of Shan.

“Something is,” Anton said, “and this is the best I’ve got. You coming or not?”

Samuel considered saying no, turning away and continuing down the street, passing right on by the LeClaire townhouse and heading towards his own home, to his cold and lonely bed to stew in the darkness that plagued him.

It certainly wouldn’t do. He already felt like he was drowning.

He looked up at Anton with a false smile on his face, saying, “I’d be a very poor student if I left my teacher, wouldn’t I?”

Anton beamed, suddenly looking so much more alive. “To the Fox Den,” he said to the driver, then slung himself into the carriage. He held out his hand, pulling Samuel in after him. “To adventure.”

Samuel grinned, for real this time, and let Anton LeClaire sweep him away into the night.

The Fox Den was so much more than Samuel anticipated—not simply a gambling hell, but an experience that cultivated a sense of danger and delight. The gambling hell was built into the basement of a hotel, one of the few in Dameral, and they had entered through a staircase cut into the ground itself. Anton smiled at him as they arrived at the thick wooden door and rapped a distinct pattern against it.

A panel in the door opened, revealing the harsh face of a doorman who glared at Samuel with suspicion, but when Anton vouched for him let them pass. He opened the door, ushering them into a shockingly small room. There was a bar along one wall, stocking everything. But it was the counter along the other wall that had Anton’s attention—the one that turned money into small wooden chips used for gambling and back again.

“It’s not the most exclusive club, but still,” Anton said, leading him to the money changers. “One does not simply join the Fox Den. You either need an invitation or a referral.”

“If it’s so exclusive, how did you get in?”

Anton bared a laugh and dropped a handful of coins in front of the teller. She swiftly swiped them away, replacing them with a stack of differently colored chips. “I may be Unblooded, Aberforth, but my coin spends as well as any other.”