“Yes, I was surprised to hear that your father was throwing a charity masquerade in the city,” Morpheus replies, shaking his hand in response. “But as he always takes such good care of Juliet, I knew I couldn’t refuse.”
Paris, despite the piercings in his lips and ears and the tattoos that to most people would mark him as a delinquent, is all suave and controlled composure. Tonight, he’s dressed like a pirate king in a pair of tight black pants and a loose-fitted peasant shirt crisscrossed with brown and bronze belts. He flicks a look at me from behind his mask at Morpheus’ mention of me.
“Juliet?” Paris fakes the confused smile to perfection. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“You haven’t?” Morpheus releases Paris’ hand to gesture me forward. “I’m surprised, you’re close in age.”
“Most of my education has been spent on the West Coast,” Paris says as he takes my hand and bends over it gallantly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, though, Miss Juliet.”
“You as well.” Something soft and cool—paper—slips from his fingers into mine as he releases me. Without missing a beat, I tuck the note into the back of my hair, swept up and off my neck save for the strands that fall around my face and mask. The note disappears onto a bobby pin and I lower my hand again as if I’d just been fixing an already perfect look.
“Have you had a moment to dance yet?” Paris inquires, looking between Morpheus and me.
“We just arrived,” Morpheus answers.
“Well, then, I should be the first to introduce Miss Juliet to our lovely entertainment.” Paris holds out his hand, but I temper myself, unwilling to seem too eager. “Would you care to dance?”
Viscerally aware of Morpheus’ attention on me, I glance in his direction before lifting my palm to Paris’. “If my uncle is amenable,” I hedge.
Morpheus’ lips curl down at the ‘uncle’ tag, but he merely nods his head at the two of us. “Come straight back,” he orders. “I believe I see an old business friend. I shall be nearby when you are finished.”
“Perhaps I won’t ever return her,” Paris jokes as he sweeps me away without letting Morpheus get another word in.
“You are a god,” I whisper as he leads me towards the waiting dance floor with several couples already in a careful waltz under the watchful eyes of the crowd.
“I do what I can,” Paris says, his lips twitching with amusement. “Though you should’ve seen his face when I said that last bit. I do believe youruncleis quite possessive of something that doesn’t belong to him.”
“He is,” I agree as he swings me around and takes my waist in his free hand. I settle mine on his shoulder. “But that’s what tonight is about, isn’t it? Getting out from under his thumb.”
Paris nods. “The note contains a room number that your men have already received.”
The soft melody of the music spirals and Paris’ hands land on my waist, lifting me up as he spins me about. “A masquerade was a genius idea,” I confess as he sets me back down and we move into the next number. “Morpheus already knows what they look like, but how will they know when we’re supposed to meet?”
Paris’ smirk is all masculine pride. “Please, Jules,” he says in that always self-satisfied and amused way of his. “I believe you’ll find that if a man wants a woman, he’ll wait forever or…” He spins me out and then back in until my spine is pressed to his front. Sweat beads along my brow and back. “Perhaps, he’ll just steal her away.”
I roll my eyes. “Not all men are you,” I reply. The laugh that comes from my friend has several female heads turning in our direction. “God help whoever you set your sights on.”
“Now, why would you say it like that?” Paris asks. “I’m a catch.”
The dance slows and Paris turns the two of us just enough for me to catch sight of Morpheus staring me down. He’s got a drink in hand and another man standing at his side, dressed like an overstuffed fox with a faux gold animal mask covering the upper half of his chubby face.
“You’re more than a catch, Paris,” I murmur, refocusing on the man in front of me. “You’re a beautiful soul. One day, there will be someone you can tell your secrets to. Someone who will love you and accept you.”
Paris’ hands on my waist tighten a fraction and his smile stretches—looking almost brittle—for a second before it smooths out. I hate to see that small vulnerability in him, but I understand his need to push down the pain. We’ve both suffered similarly and I do the same.
“It could’ve been us, you know,” he says, voice lowering.
I shake my head. “No, Paris, it never could’ve been. You know that. My love isn’t the kind that can save you.”
He’s quiet for several more twists and turns of the song, then, in a voice almost devoid of his usual delight, he says, “I don’t think love is something thatcansave me.”
The words are heartbreaking in their honesty, and though I want to tell him it’s possible, I know the truth is he has to bethe one to let it. Maybe someone else’s love can’t save him from himself, but someone else’s love might just teach him how to love himself again and that will be enough.
“Song’s almost over,” he says a minute later. Paris leans in and presses his lips close to my ear. “Take the back path through the garden to catch the servants’ elevator—the exit is at the back of the hall.”
“Morpheus?”
“I’ll distract him while you get away,” he promises.
