Paris’ grin turns sad. “True,” he agrees. “Very true. Fine, I’ll lay off their backgrounds—but you should give me their names, regardless. If I see them around, I’ll keep them in my good graces, but only for you.”
I pause. “I love them, Paris.” The words are quiet, but the admission is not. It hangs around my neck like a noose threatening to steal the last of my soul. I’m choking on those words. The reality of what loving the Scorpion Kings has done, where it’s put me.
Paris doesn’t respond for the longest of moments. When he does, it’s in true Paris fashion. “Well… fuck,” he says.
The laugh I release is watery. “Yeah, I know.” I shake my head. “Never thought it’d happen, but I’m only telling you that so you know—if anything happens to them, it’ll fucking kill me.”
“I won’t hurt them, Jules, you can count on that promise.”
I nod. “Thank you, Paris. You’re a good friend.”
We’re out of time. Murphy is most likely getting antsy and if I need to make it back here next week, then I need to get going. I give Paris all of the information on the guys that I can and he hugs me once more before disappearing through the door away from Murphy’s eyes.
Bea is back and she leads me, with my new outfit, back to my bodyguard. Murphy is annoyed when I first catch sight of him, his brow creased and his body rigid. When he sees me, though, he calms quite a bit.
“Are you ready, Miss Donovan?”
I march past him. “I’m done if that’s what you’re asking, and I want to go back,” I snap. “Where’s Roquel?”
Bea’s eyes linger on my back as Murphy and I leave the secret rooms behind and head back out into the club’s main hub. My heart is hammering against my rib cage.
I did it,I realize.I really fucking did it.I managed to make something happen right under Morpheus’ nose. Maybe I can get away. Maybe I don’t have to be the princess in the fucking tower.
I ride the high of my success all the way through the rest of the night—which ends rather quickly once I make it back tomy friend. Roquel is slobbering drunk and stumbling in jerky movements as she dances wildly on top of a table when I spy her.
“Shit.” I hurry in her direction, glaring at Hughes who stands to the side, eyeing her with no small amount of disgust even if he doesn’t step forward to stop her. “Roquel!” I call out.
“Jules!” Roquel whirls around, cantering to one side and nearly falling off the damn table. Only then does Hughes finally step up. He grips her arm and pulls.
“Oh my gosh.” Roquel giggles, fluttering her lashes up at Hughes as she lets herself slide right into the big man’s arms. “You’resoooooostrong.” One delicate hand grips his bicep. “Do ya work out or somethin’?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “Perhaps it’s time to return home, Miss Donovan?” Murphy’s suggestion sounds more like an order than a question, but I’ve done what I came here for, so I let it slide.
“Yeah,” I nod towards Hughes and Roquel. “Let’s go.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, Murphy practically leaps forward. He and Hughes head back to the elevators and with each floor that we descend, I feel the chains of Morpheus’ hold finding their way back around my limbs. The flashing lights and men and women dripping in money and high fashion blur in my periphery with how fast Murphy leads me out of the club.
I knew it wasn’t real freedom, but for just a moment—it felt like it.
Back in the town car, Roquel whines as Hughes deposits her onto the seat next to me. “No,” she huffs and cries. “We were havingsomuch fun.” She hiccups and leans her head back against the window.
“We can always come back,” I suggest, much to Murphy’s and Hughes’ obvious dismay—their dark, annoyed gazes finding mine in the rearview mirror.
“Really?” Roquel claps her hands loudly.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “You know my uncle wants me to be happy.”
So long as that means I’m firmly under his thumb and in his grip.
47
JULIET
Paris’ invitation arrives within a few days. He’s always been a competitive man—even if that competition is with himself. Still, I can’t help but be impressed by not only how quickly he managed to put something together, but by the gold embossed invitation that’s handed to me on Thursday morning at breakfast. A second one is given to Morpheus.
I carefully open mine, not looking up as I pinch my brow in false confusion. “What is this?” I ask, looking up as Morpheus reads his own. “What have you told the Troyans that they feel comfortable sending me invitations here?”
Angry. Surprised. Justified. I keep the illusion going because if Morpheus even has a hint that the guys will be there, then my chances of getting to see them will disappear.
