Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

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In a castle adorned with gems, coated in gold, and dusted with luxury, the youngest of the Constantine Family will be introduced to the elite of New York. But the party isn’t all glamor. Villains lurk in dark corners, evil deals are struck, and star-crossed lovers are born.

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Hallelujah

Skye Warren

Chapter One

Eva Morelli

The offending desserts steam from the counter. Two thousand miniature mince pies line up in neat rows. My mother stares at them as if they spit on her heritage.

I pick one up, flaky pastry warm between my fingertips. A delicious mixture of currants and apples blooms on my tongue. A candied orange peel on top provides a pleasant bite.

It tastes good, I say, knowing that won’t matter.

Nutmeg, my mother says with haughty indignance. There isn’t nearly enough. It’s mostly cinnamon.

Sarah Morelli may have married an Italian man, but her family came over on the Mayflower.

Along with this recipe for mince pies.

She won’t let anyone forget it, even if it means throwing away two thousand canapés.

I’ll fix this, I say with more confidence than I feel.

She doesn’t ask how. She just gives me a serene smile. I can always count on you, Eva.

The Morelli Christmas Gala is legendary in Bishop’s Landing. Our mince pies are an annual tradition, along with the fleet of horse-drawn carriage rides and mistletoe-filled maze. If we don’t serve these, my mother will hear about it for months at the high-society committee meetings she attends.

I should get back out there, she says. Or they’ll ask after me.

I obediently kiss my mother’s cheek when she turns to the side. She’s the host of this event. But I’m the one who works with the caterers, the decorators, the waitstaff.

Every single person in a white dress shirt and black pants has a job tonight. They bustle efficiently through the large service kitchen, dropping off empty glasses of champagne and leaving with fresh trays of canapés. I can’t take them off their current jobs—and besides, this is too important to pass to someone else. I’ll need to fix the mince pies myself.

Whipped cream, I decide. With plenty of nutmeg. I can pipe it into a neat swirl on top of the pies. No one will even know they were altered from how the caterer made them.

What’s wrong? My younger sister Daphne looks grown up in a black sheath dress. Her expression, however, is anxious. Sarah Morelli has that impact on us. We may be adults now, but we still obey our mother.

The mince pies. I need to make about two tons of whipped cream for them.

She makes a face. I’ll help you.

No, go back out there. The more of us missing, the more people will notice. I’m already pulling out jugs of whole milk from the industrial sized fridge.

Ugh, if only I knew how to make whipped cream.

Neither of us really enjoy the formal events our parents host, but we’re both used to them. The fake smiles. The drunken laughter. If it were a kind of paint, you could make it.

Or a color. She eyes the mince pies dubiously. That shade of brown is not inspiring.

She’s always preferred chocolate desserts. Besides, this is the first Christmas gala that has Constantines. I need someone standing guard in case trouble breaks out.

A snort. What would I do if trouble broke out?

The Constantines have been our family’s archenemy forever. None of us know exactly how it started except our parents, and they aren’t talking.

Then my brother Leo fell in love with Haley Constantine.

For that reason we extended an invitation to a few of her family members. Reluctantly. Begrudgingly. And we’ve been tense the entire time, wondering if something will go wrong. A verbal altercation would be bad. A physical altercation would be worse.

Even between high-society billionaires, violence is common enough.

Pretend to faint, I advise. Someone will have to call an ambulance.

More likely I’d get trampled.

You’re right. If anything sketchy happens, come get me. I locate a large bottle of nutmeg. If this were the family kitchen upstairs I’d be lucky to find a half-empty jar of dried spices, but we’re downstairs where the staff works so it’s fully stocked. I’ll be done here soon, and I’ll come out.

She sighs. I’ll make sure Sophie isn’t bothering Mom.

We’re the good daughters, according to our mother.

Meanwhile Lisbetta is spending the holidays at her boarding school in Switzerland, against direct orders from our parents. And Sophia—well, Sophie has always been contrary. If you say go right, she goes left. The dress code for the Christmas gala was formalwear in black, white, gold, and red.

Naturally Sophie showed up in clashing hot pink.

After Daphne goes upstairs, I pull out a professional stand mixer.

In minutes I’m covered in sugar and stray flecks of whipped cream. At least they don’t show up against the black and white lace covering my floor-length gown.

I use a spatula to move the mixture into a piping bag.

Footsteps approach me from behind. They’re not the soft tap of my sister’s heels. Or the whisper of my mother’s gown against the floor. They’re the hard, sure steps of a man.

Don’t bother talking me out of it, I say to my brother Leo. He doesn’t understand why I work so hard to keep our mother happy, and he’s probably here to drag me upstairs.

I would never dream of it, comes a low, masculine rumble.

I whirl in surprise, sending sprays of white cream across crisp black dress pants. The man wearing them is handsome, well-built, and, unfortunately, amused at my expense. Oh my god, I breathe.

Don’t tell me they have you slaving away in the kitchen? That’s grim, even for a Morelli. Finn Hughes leans back against a counter and crosses his arms, unconcerned with the whipped cream that’s setting into what’s no doubt a ten-thousand-dollar bespoke tuxedo.

I grab a dish towel and bend down to wipe the cream from him in fast, efficient strokes. I’m trying not to touch him inappropriately, but I can feel his heat through the fabric. His powerful thighs form a backdrop to my frantic wipes. What are you even doing down here? This is the service kitchen.

He looks down and raises an eyebrow. I imagined you kneeling at my feet many times, but there was never whipped cream involved. A lack of imagination on my part, to be sure.

My cheeks burn. I can’t send you back upstairs looking like this.

Absolutely not. People would think we’d gotten up to something. His arms are still crossed, as if he’s unconcerned. As if he’s enjoying this. If only they were right.

I stand and throw up my hands. If you don’t care about your tux, I don’t know why I’m bothering.

He glances back at the throngs of servers. There isn’t anyone else who could help you?

They’re busy. Besides, this is my mother’s recipe. If it’s not right…

I don’t have to finish the sentence. My parents aren’t known for being flexible. Finn Hughes knows that. And Eva Morelli is the good dutiful daughter.

Go back upstairs, I say, exasperated.

He chuckles, a deep sound that presses straight between my legs.

He’s from the Constantine family, strictly speaking. His mother is Caroline Constantine’s sister. Geneva married into the infamous Hughes family. Which is why he’s always been invited to the Christmas Gala, even before this year. My mother isn’t going to snub the Vanderbilts. She isn’t going to snub the Kennedys. And she’s not going to snub the Hugheses—regardless of longstanding feuds.

I’ll help you, he says.

Absolutely not. My voice sounds breathless. I have to tilt my head up to look at him. When did he get so close? We’re only inches away. If I leaned forward our bodies would be touching.

Why not?

Because my mother would freak out if she found you down here.

I’ll tell her I insisted, he says with his megawatt grin that has probably gotten him out of trouble more times than I can imagine. Between his irresistible charm, his gorgeous silhouette, and a massive trust fund, this is not a man who’s been told no many times. I’ll tell her that I want to learn how to bake after watching the Great British Bake Off. And you’re tutoring me.

He’s teasing me, and I want to be stern, but I can’t keep a smile from teasing my lips. If I give him actual work to do, he’ll probably disappear. Fine. You can pipe this while I make more.

Show me how.

I lean over the counter to pipe a circle of cream in a simple design on a small mince pie. When I lean back I see that he’s been checking out my backside. Heat flashes through my body. I clear my throat and hand over the piping bag, aiming for an imperious expression I’ve seen my mother employ. Your turn.

His hair is brown, but his lashes gleam almost blonde against his tanned cheeks. He takes the piping bag from me and makes a clumsy circle around a mince pie. A little whipped cream ends up on the side of his hand. He meets my eyes and licks it off. I can read every dirty thought in those mischievous brown eyes. Every promise. Every position that he thinks about when he’s using his tongue.

My eyes widen. I speak past the knot in my throat. Right. You can do the rest of the pies now.

I whirl back around to face the mixer, my body alight. My nipples must be pressing against the silk lining my dress. Warmth pools between my legs. A husky laugh follows me.

I’m not sure I could speak again if my life depended on it.

I busy myself preparing another mixture. I keep my gaze straight ahead, but inside I’m listening behind me. I’m expecting to hear footsteps wander away.

Instead there’s only a concentrated quiet.

Who knew that Finn Hughes would actually help me?

His swirls aren’t as neat as mine, but they’re passable. And he works quickly, so that by the time I’m done with this bowl he’s ready for the fresh piping bag I hand him.

We cover two thousand mince pies with nutmeg cream.

Then we’re standing there, surveying our work. I’m aware of his gaze on me.

He brushes his thumb across my cheek, coming away white with whipped cream.

My breath catches. I look at him, drawn by some unnamable force. Heat races across my skin, a powerful reaction to the brief caress. It sounds insane, but I want him to touch me again.

Eva, he murmurs.

I shake my head. We can’t.

I’m not sure what I’m refusing. A kiss. A fuck. I’m refusing to have anything to do with handsome men who murmur promises that I’m weak enough to believe.

His lips quirk. I could make you enjoy it.

That’s even worse.

A soft laugh. Then his hand lifts my chin. My eyes fall closed. Warm lips descend on mine. I gasp at the contact, and he presses the advantage, opening me, invading me.

He pulls me flush against his hard body, and I feel the ridge of his erection against my stomach. Instinct makes me pull away, but he holds me—firm and unconcerned. We have to stop.

His lips brush the curve of my ear. I could sit you on this counter and drag your dress up. I could taste your pussy. Would it taste like nutmeg? Would it be sweet like whipped cream? No, you’ll have your own perfect flavor. The staff would watch, but they wouldn’t stop me.

My mother—

She wouldn’t stop me, either. No, she’d be happy enough to land a Hughes. Your father would sell you to me as if you were a plump calf on his farm. How much would you cost, do you think?

I squirm away from him, but I’m trapped between his hard body and the counter. I’m not an animal.

A grunt escapes him. He holds tight on my hips. Don’t move, darling. Not unless you want to be on your back, your ankles locked behind my back.

His erection flexes against my hip—a subtle threat. I go still.

He teases my earlobe gently between his teeth. You act like the quiet, dutiful daughter, but I think you’re more than that. You have secrets, Eva Morelli. And I’m going to know them.

A shiver runs through me. He sounds sure. Never.

And once I know them, you’ll do anything to keep me from telling the rest of the world, won’t you? I’ll be able to do anything to you as the price for my silence.

I stiffen. That’s blackmail.

He presses a gentle kiss to my temple. Precisely.

Then he steps back. I’m sucking in a breath, grasping the counter for balance. He disappears in a blur of expensive linen and wool. God, I’m in way over my head with him.

Then again, his threat was probably empty. There are a hundred beautiful young women upstairs. Many of them would be willing to go into a dark alcove with him tonight. Despite the religious reason for the season, there are always hookups that happen at the gala.

The thought of him with another woman makes my stomach drop.

Which is ridiculous.

I have no claim on him. And more importantly, he has no claim on me.

No man will ever have power over me. Not again.

Chapter Two

Finn Hughes

I keep to the fringes of the gala, lingering near the fragrant pine trees adorned with black, white, and gold ornaments. An errant bough drags a small line of wet across the back of my hand. Without taking my eyes off my prey, I suck the sap from my skin. I’m pretending it’s her skin, of course. Pretending it’s her arousal. Pretending the pine-water taste is the sweet, earthy scent of a woman.

There’s only one woman I want. Eva Morelli. She glides through the crowd, bestowing smiles on drunk old men and stuffy old women, greeting each person by name, asking after some baby or wedding or retirement.

Even lined with ten-foot-high Frasier firs, the ballroom easily fits five hundred people. Most of them mingle with champagne. Others dance to the old-timey song Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree crooned by a guy in a white suit. He used to be famous—a few decades ago. Now he probably ekes out a decent living on the private circuit, flashing those veneers to the country club set. Maybe he even makes extra by going home with a rich, lonely widow.

A few women—and a few men—look more than willing to pay.

Outside there’s an eight-thousand-square-foot heated tent with a lobster buffet.

There’s also a North Pole replica complete with a human-size edible Gingerbread house.

My whole life I’ve attended parties like this one. Extravagant. Over the top.

It’s as ordinary to me as a family barbeque would be for someone else.

The fact that Constantines are invited this year… that’s new, but it’s not surprising. Those two families are obsessed with each other. They may pretend they’re getting along for the sake of Leo and Lucian, but the truth is they’re keeping their enemies close.

Doesn’t matter. The Hughes have always been above that, even though Caroline Constantine is my aunt. My father came from oil money in Dallas. We’ve always been welcome at the Morelli Christmas Gala. Sarah Morelli, in particular, loves me. I catch sight of her stark black dress through the crowd. She murmurs something to Eva, who scurries off to do her bidding.

I don’t like it.

I don’t like the way she’s ordered around and overlooked, but it’s not up to me, is it? However people treat Eva Morelli is no business of mine.

There’s a dark presence behind me. I don’t move, not even when I realize who it is. Especially when I realize who it is. It’s not good to show weakness to Leo Morelli. The Hughes name and status mean nothing to a man with a legendary temper.

Don’t. That’s all he says.

I could pretend I wasn’t ogling his sister, but that would just waste time. A man can look.

No. He can’t. I know my mother thinks the sun rises at the Hughes’ French chateau, but I don’t give a fuck. If you touch her, if you speak to her, if you so much as glance at her, I’ll throw you off the Morelli estate with my bare hands.

That makes me smile. It’s a slow, lazy kind of smile. It’s not good to show weakness, but then again, I don’t have any. I’ve got a sister myself. I suppose protectiveness comes with the territory. Still, don’t you think this whole growling caveman thing is a little much?

You don’t want to press me, Hughes.

We grew up running wild amid the satin, glittering trappings of events like this one. There was one time we conspired to let loose my sister’s pet gerbils in a costume party. Another time we loaded our nerf guns with the sticky-sweet profiteroles intended for dessert. We’ve been both friends and enemies. You have a reputation for your temper. People believe what you feed them, but I know the real Leo Morelli. I know who gathered up the gerbils and put them back in their cage when my father wanted to drown them in the grotto.

The gerbil wasn’t salivating while looking at my sister.

I laugh without a sound. Salivating? That’s unfortunate. One does hate to be obvious.

She’s not like your other women.

My harem, you mean? Hadn’t realized you’d met them.

I’m serious.

I turn a narrowed gaze on him, on his dark eyes and coal-black hair, on the cold countenance that holds so many secrets. Her secrets. She’s not like the other women here, who glide through the room, secure in their position and privilege. She’s running around like a goddamn servant, and I don’t see you doing anything to stop it.

What happens in our family is none of your business. He pushes past me, bumping me as he goes. A crude message, but an effective one. Hunt elsewhere, Hughes.

And I try.

I’ve partied with many of the young women in the crowd. Fucked them. Had threesomes with a handful of them. But there’s always a fresh crop of them—ones who are finally old enough to warrant their own invitations. Ones whose families just made enough money to join this elite sphere. Nouveau riche, my aunt would say with a sniff of her large nose. Ones who’ve gotten back from some commune in Amsterdam or college in Switzerland.

I could hunt, as Leo Morelli put it, and take home delicious prey.

A woman presses herself against me. I turn to see a bubbly, blonde Patricia beaming up at me. Finn! I’ve missed you. She throws her arms around me, pressing her breasts against my tux, encompassing me in a cloud of Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium. Where have you been?

Working, I say, which is ironically the truth.

Connor laughs, because he’s never worked a day in his life. He’s on again, off again with Patricia. Judging from the way he drapes an arm over her bare shoulders, they’re currently on. We just got back from Vail. Everyone was there. Where the fuck were you?

A stern-looking matron turns to give us a dirty look for bad language. I wink at her, and she turns back, her cheeks slightly pinker.

Chamonix Mont Blanc has the better runs, I say, because they’ll assume I was skiing and getting wasted and fucking my way through the resorts there.

Yeah, he says, laughing his frat boy laugh. Did he practice it in the mirror or did it just come naturally to him? A Hughes can probably reserve the black diamond runs all to himself.

Patricia takes my hand and tugs me closer. Too close. Are you coming to the after party? A friend has the hook up at this new club. G-Eazy’s supposed to be there.

Does anyone still care about him after Halsey broke up with him?

A giggle. She pulls me closer. It would be awkward in front of any other boyfriend. Considering how often Connor’s cheated on her, it’s merely exasperating. And then after we could get high. Connor booked us a suite. Some of us are going to hang out.

I’ve been to my share of after parties. Someone’s always got the hook up at a club, especially when we can slip them a fold of hundred dollar bills. From the look in Patricia’s eyes, she wants to get up close and personal tonight. I’ve fucked her. And, separately, I’ve fucked Connor. Don’t judge. Repressed frat boys can be a great ride. Maybe if I fucked them together?

When you’ve done everything, it’s hard to find something new.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful they are, or how talented their mouths. I don’t want the people standing in front of me. I’m not even sure I want sex.

Instead I want the secrets held in sad, dark eyes.

Text me later, I say, extricating myself from Patricia’s grip.

Screw Vail and G-Eazy. Screw Leo Morelli.

I want Eva.

That turns out to be a more difficult task than expected, however. She’s not mingling in the ballroom. She’s not helping elderly guests pick food from the buffet. She’s not even soothing a five-year-old heiress who’s crying because the pony took a shit.

I move through the throngs of people, smiling vaguely when people call me, returning a distracted handshake before plowing on. Where the hell is she? If they have her working in the goddamn kitchens again like a goddamn house elf, I’m going to lose it.

I’m passing through the large hallway leading to the art gallery when I see it—two members of the waitstaff gathering up broken glass from marble floors.

What happened here? I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

One of them widens her eyes. Nervous around a guest, maybe. Or nervous because of what just happened. There’s a sense of panic in the air, more than comes from a broken crystal glass. N-nothing, sir. Only cleaning up a small mess. I was clumsy.

I don’t think you were clumsy, I say, and she flinches even though my voice is soft. But someone was. Where is he? Or she, I suppose? It could be either gender. Or neither of them, but somehow it’s always a man causing problems, isn’t it?

She makes a small sound of denial, unwilling to share information. Except a quick dart of her eyes gives him away. Or her. I’ll find out soon enough. I stride across the gallery floor, the heels of my Ferragamo Angiolos tapping on the stone. A heavy wooden door with ornate scrollwork guards one of the many antechambers. Salons, you could call them. Drawing rooms. Old world places for gathering in small groups. Or motel rooms, as they’re more often called among the cousins, because they’re always available for a quick fuck. No one bothers you here.

I knock on the door, expecting to find a belligerent guest vomiting on the Aubusson. Or a rowdy couple baptising the leather armchair.

The sight that greets me makes my blood run cold.

Bryant fucking Morelli, the patriarch of this family, the ex-CEO of Morelli Holdings, the host of this little shindig, stands there, face red, cursing profusely.

With his hand around Eva’s wrist.

The skin around his grip has turned white from the pressure. There’s fear in her wide eyes. And pain written in the tight line of her lips. He’s hurting her.

And I see red.

Chapter Three

Eva Morelli

Damage control. That’s the only thing on my mind since my mother sent me from the ballroom. Your father. That was all she said. All she needed to say.

There was an emergency with the fake snow turning to ice. A horse-drawn carriage almost went down. And there was a disaster where someone had brought their purse dog and then let him loose. The miniature chihuahua had climbed six feet high in the central Christmas tree and then barked until someone climbed through the needles to pull him out.

Then my mother whispers those words, urgent, pained, and I know this is the emergency now.

I search the ballroom. The dining tables. Outside.

A group of people are caroling, drunkenly singing the refrain to Hallelujah.

The discordant notes send shivers down my spine.

I find my father in an antechamber off the art gallery smashing glasses of champagne against the painting of our family as if they were baseballs in a batting cage.

Waitstaff hover outside the room, unable to stop him. Just as well that they don’t get in his way. We don’t need another ambulance called to the house.

Waitstaff get ambulances. Guests get ambulances.

Family? We get a first aid kit in an upstairs bathroom. We’re used to Bryant Morelli’s rampages, used to the shouting and the shoving and the bruises that inevitably follow.

I’m used to it. At least, that’s what I tell myself as my father shakes me in anger, as he grasps my wrist. As I flinch away from his slap. He doesn’t hurt me often, not anymore, but it still happens sometimes. The old desperation takes hold of me. Along with the fear.

Then the door swings open.

We freeze, my father in fury, me in shock.

Any number of people could have wandered back here. Everyone knows about the antechambers. The cleaning staff regularly has to pick up used condoms from the ten-thousand-dollar rugs after these galas. If it’s a guest, they’ll probably sense we’re in a conflict and find another room. They might gossip, but at least they’ll go away.

It’s not a random guest that stands there.

It’s Finn Hughes. My heart thuds against my ribs. I barely have time to register him standing there, austere in his bespoke tux, his usually affable expression made dark.

Then he crosses the room in hard, floor-eating strides. He does something too fast for me to see, a blur, and then my hand is released. My father recoils with a grunt of pain. He pulls back, holding his arm against his side, snarling with indignation.

Then I can’t see him anymore, because Finn steps between us.

My father is not a small man. He’s solid. Strong for a man in his sixties. Terrifying when he’s in a rage. The idea of Finn—charming, elegant Finn—being hit by his fists makes me cry out.

Except he doesn’t get the chance.

Finn throws a punch, knocking my father back. Another punch. You want to pick on someone? Pick on me. You want to fight? Fight someone who will fight back.

I’ve always known Finn was tall and lean. I never realized how strong he was. Not until he pushes my father against the wall and shoves him a foot off the ground—all two hundred and fifty pounds of him. He holds him up with one hand.

My father curses in gasping breaths.

Finn scoffs. Oh, you’re going to fuck me up? You and who else? Would your own sons back you up in a fight? Your brothers? You sure as hell can’t take me yourself.

I’ll ruin you, my father rasps.

You can’t touch me, old man.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins. I run to grab his free arm. Finn, I say, out of breath, panicky. Please. Stop. You have to let him go.

Finn looks at me, hazel eyes made brilliant by violence. Why? Because he’ll punish you for this? I should break his fucking neck.

No, I say, tears stinging my eyes, humiliation a hard knot in my stomach.

Some people might wonder why I want him spared, this man who runs rampant in my nightmares. He’s hurt me in countless ways, but he’s still my father. Flesh and blood. Family loyalty was drilled into me, etched into my skin, from the moment I was born. Love is tangled up in guilt and shame and duty. I can’t even tell them apart.

None of this should make sense, but as Finn looks at me through those green and golden eyes, I have the feeling he understands. Fuck, he mutters, releasing my father in a single, quick move, letting him slump to the ground.

I take a step forward to stop him and then halt. Approaching him now would be like approaching a hungry crocodile—I could have my neck snapped in an instant.

How dare you, my father says, glaring at Finn. I’ll have you run out of town. I’ll have you horse whipped. I’ll have you drowned in the fucking river.

Anyone would be scared when being threatened by him. He’s powerful and wealthy—and vindictive. But Finn doesn’t even seem concerned. He seems… contemptuous. As if he’s watching a hornet wage war on a mountain. My blood pounds with anxiety. Danger, danger, danger. This is a terrible situation, but still, there’s something so brave about Finn’s nonchalance.

I wish I had his courage.

You do that, Finn says, his voice colder than I’ve ever imagined it. This isn’t a carefree playboy. This is a man with power and responsibilities. Later. For now you’re going to walk off that black eye. Anyone asks? You ran into a fucking door.

It seems impossible. Every part of me revolts from the possibility, but somehow, the command works. My father swears the whole way out the door, muttering threats and curses, but he slinks away, out of the antechamber, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Christ, Finn says, shutting the door.

I’m sorry that happened, I say, babbling, shaking with nerves. Please don’t think—I mean, you must wonder how—I’m sure he didn’t know—

He didn’t know I would interrupt? he asks, his voice dry. I’m sure he didn’t. Does that happen often? Him hurting you.

He didn’t hurt me. The lie comes out automatically.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he crosses the plush rug. As he takes my arm, gentle even as he proves me wrong. His thumb brushes my wrist, and I wince. It’s still red, the flesh burning where my father twisted it. I know from experience that it’ll be blue tomorrow morning.

Liar, he says, the accusation soft.

There’s a hitch in my breath. It’s not that bad.

It’s worse. I knew he was an asshole, but I didn’t know—Fuck, maybe I did know. Maybe the whole goddamn world knows how bad men can be, and we just let them do it.

Don’t, I say, a knot in my throat. Seeing him angry on my behalf… it does something to me. Makes me yearn and hope. Dangerous feelings. Leo protected me.

A glance down at his wrist. Where is he?

It’s not a real question. His tone says it’s a challenge, like he’s calling me a liar again. And maybe I am lying. Leo protected me. He got between me and my father countless times, taking beatings for me, fighting back—though he could never manage Finn’s icy composure. We were all too heated for that. But he couldn’t be around me twenty-four seven. He couldn’t protect me when he wasn’t home. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.

You aren’t going to tell anyone about this, are you? I can only imagine my mother’s horror at finding out that Finn Hughes saw my father in that state.

He shakes his head. I should have killed him while I had the chance.

No, I say, somehow managing a dry tone. Then my mother would really freak out.

She might thank me.

I run my hands along my arms, trying to control my shivers. It’s the adrenaline. I recognize this feeling from other times my father rampaged through the house. My mother would retreat into her sitting room with a bottle of wine. My sisters would be jumpy and anxious. My brothers would often get into a fight even though the danger had passed. I’ve never felt that before, brimming over with violence, but somehow I’m feeling it now. Like I want to push Finn. Like I want to push him and pull him, but I wouldn’t hurt him. No. I’d kiss him.

I shake my head, forcing the crazy thought away. She would probably help you hide the body. You’d give her that insouciant smile, and she’d say, ‘anything for a Hughes.’

Insouciant, he says, using that exact smile. Charming. Irreverent.

It shouldn’t be possible, but he makes me smile, too. That’s what you are.

His warm hazel eyes take in the way I’m shaking, and he reaches out. He tucks me against his chest. For a moment, I hold myself rigid. I’ve been hugged a hundred times at the gala so far. Family, friends, acquaintances. Even strangers will hug me in the Christmas spirit. Or because they want to get closer to my family’s power. None of those hugs felt like this.

On a soft exhale, I let myself sink into his arms.

He murmurs against my hair. Who the hell uses words like insouciant? Except for The New Yorker.

Lots of people use that word.

What does it even mean?

Strong. That’s the first word that comes to mind, because I’m in his arms. I can feel the surprising hardness of his body beneath the smooth lines of the tux. Strong and brave in the face of violence. "It means nonchalant."

His lips move into a smile against my hair. Another big word. Do you talk like that all the time?

I make a small sound, more of a dismissal than an answer.

You’re different, he says. Why are you different? It doesn’t come out like a question. It feels more like he’s wondering something aloud, something he’s thought before.

I’m not different, I say, because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I know why he’s interested in me. Because I’m one of the only women he hasn’t been with at the gala. I’m a novelty. Something new, but not special.

His fingers go beneath my chin. He tips my face up. Those hazel eyes look different this close. A deeper green. The golden flecks shimmering. He’s beautiful but opaque. It’s impossible to see what he’s really thinking or feeling. I have the sense that all his charm is a front. I don’t know what lies beneath the playboy surface. Maybe no one does.

Why did you come here? I whisper.

A liaison, most likely. A plan to meet up with one of the women at the gala. So why haven’t they come? I was looking for you, he murmurs.

Why? It feels like opening Pandora’s box.

To do this. That’s all he says before he leans down. His mouth is an inch away from mine. He hovers there, letting his breath warm my lips, breathing me in.

He brushes against me. It’s a tease, that faint touch. My nerve endings come alight. He kisses the way he talks—playful, laid back. I relax into his embrace. He licks the seam of my lips, and my breath catches. I push up on my toes, surging closer.

Easy, I think. It’s easy to be with him. Maybe that’s what safe feels like.

He nips my bottom lip, and I whimper.

A shiver captures me, head to toe. He pulls back. His eyes are deeper now, forest green, a place of mystery and magic.

This isn’t insouciance. Or nonchalance.

It’s something darker.

He tightens a fist in my hair, turning me around so I face the wall, holding me against his hard chest. It took so long to do my hair for tonight. Hours of shampoo and conditioner and blow drying. Making the curls just right. They’re nothing but a handle for him now. Something stark and blatantly sexual.

I feel submissive this way. Trapped. My sex clenches beneath my evening gown.

What are you doing? I ask, breathless.

Tasting, he murmurs, dragging kisses along my neck, biting the juncture to my shoulder. I just want a taste. I won’t hurt you. You aren’t scared, are you?

I’m alone in a room with a man—a strong, virile man. One who isn’t afraid to shove someone against a wall. He’s holding me in such a way that I can’t defend myself. Yes, I whisper.

An unsteady laugh. That shouldn’t turn me on so much.

A large hand passes over my breasts, as if he’s an explorer, a marauder, mapping the terrain that he plans to claim as his own. He reaches beneath the neckline, and I gasp as his fingers rub across my nipples. I strain—whether to lean into his touch or get away, I don’t know. It only manages to wind my hair tighter in his grasp. The sharp pull brings tears to my eyes.

So that’s what you’ve been hiding, he says, pinching my nipple until I gasp. Acting demure and innocent when you have these beautiful breasts aching for attention.

As soon as he says the word I know it’s true. They are aching, but he pulls his hand away. In between a single breath and the next he releases my hair and turns me back around to face him. We stand there, connected only by pain, by wanting. I’ve been to mass a million times, but this feels somehow more religious than every moment I’ve spent kneeling.

I want to kneel in front of this man. Want to worship him with my body.

He pulls me against his body, tight and secure, but I can’t stop shivering. It’s a different kind of shock than the one that comes after violence.

This is the echo of intimacy.

More, I whisper.

I’m not going to fuck you in a motel room, he says, his voice raw.

I breathe out a laugh. I’ve heard the antechambers called motel rooms before. Most of the cousins call them that, but I’ve never done anything here. Never even made out with a boy on these leather chairs. At this moment it seems like a massive oversight.

I’ve been too busy helping my mother.

Too busy being hurt by my father.

Footsteps sound outside the antechamber. Finn moves me behind him just as the door swings open. I peer around his arm to see my brother storm in, looking furious.

Leo, I say on a gasp.

So glad you could join us, Finn says, his tone unconcerned. A family affair. Will all the Morellis be joining us? Not sure there’s enough seating for everyone.

He’s always ready for a joke, even when my father was here. Except this is worse. Bryant Morelli is wild, uncontrolled violence. My brother is a sharp blade.

He doesn’t pause. He heads straight for us, straight for Finn, murder in his dark eyes. Take your hands off my sister. I fucking warned you.

I’m stunned. "You warned him away from me? Why?"

Because of this, Leo says, biting out the words. "Because he’s putting his fucking hands on you, another Constantine. He’s using you."

Another Constantine? Finn says, catching onto that detail immediately.

There’s a dark secret in my past, something Finn can never find out about. No one can find out about it. It would humiliate me, but that’s not the only reason. It’s a loose thread in the black fabric of our family history. If someone were to pull, the whole thing could unravel.

Chapter Four

Finn Hughes

"Don’t fucking talk to her," Leo says, advancing.

He wants to fight me. And part of me wants to fight him. It’s perverse, but I’m angry at him for not protecting Eva better. Maybe what I wanted from him is superhuman. He couldn’t really have shadowed her every second of the night. But I hate that I found her at the mercy of her asshole father. I want someone to pay for that. Him. Me. Maybe both of us deserve to be pummeled for that ring of red around her wrist.

What are you going to do? I taunt him, pushing Eva back, because she’s struggling to get between us. She doesn’t want me hurting her hot-tempered brother. Or maybe it’s me she doesn’t want hurt. Kill every man at the gala? They all want her, you know.

I’ll start with you. Dark eyes flash. Then see how I feel.

No, don’t, Eva says, pushing in front of me, defending me with her small body. It’s enough to make her brother stop, at least. Which is a good thing. If he’d put his hands on her, if he’d pushed her aside or hurt her in any way, I would have lost my shit. Don’t, she says again, and whatever he sees in her expression makes him curse softly.

She turns to me, her dark eyes pleading. God, those eyes. So full of sorrow and mystery. They make me want to slay every dragon, starting with the overbearing brother. Just go.

He doesn’t get to tell you who to talk to, I say, pissed on her behalf.

Please, she begs. It’s my undoing.

Christ.

She stands there looking vulnerable and strong, delicate and defiant. I want to consume her. I want to save her. In the end I can do nothing. Her brother doesn’t get to order her around. I don’t either. If she wants me to leave, then I will.

It’s a test of willpower to leave her there. I push past her brother, bumping his shoulder the way he bumped mine earlier, making it clear this isn’t over.

I’m leaving because she asked me to—not because of him.

There’s a surreal quality to the gala when I return to the ballroom. The Christmas music. The whirl of dancers. The oversized boughs of holly hanging from the ceiling. All of it feels like a holiday funhouse mirror, everything distorted and different. All because I held Eva in my arms. Because I tasted her. She trembled for me. I still feel the slight vibration of her against my skin, the warmth of her against my palms. I form a fist, as if I can keep the sensation inside.

I watch Sarah Morelli hold court, a queen in this particular castle. She’s too austere to be a social butterfly, but it works in this setting—the somberness of Christmas, the scaffolding of religion. People fawn over her elaborate dress, the beautiful decorations. Waiters emerge from the kitchens with trays of mince pies—the pies that Eva worked on.

I’m standing in the ballroom, but I feel a million miles away from these people. I’m still back in that antechamber. Still wrapped around Eva’s sweet, panting body.

Daphne Morelli, Eva’s younger sister, hovers on the other side. She stands with a young blonde I recognize as Haley Constantine, the woman Leo’s with. From the corner of my eye I see Lucian and his lady-love make a quick exit.

I’ve been to a million events like this, but suddenly I feel out of place. It’s not the gala that changes. It’s me. As if the touch of Eva’s lips shifted some small, crucial part of me.

Great.

I stride through the other side of the ballroom, passing a couple making out beneath a heavy garland of mistletoe. It’s darker back here. This leads away from the public wing, into the family spaces. I’ve been here before during intimate dinner parties.

Never upstairs, though.

I climb the wide, sweeping staircase. Deep carpet hides my footsteps.

A