Shadow Bound. Rachel Vincent
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care how it worked. All I cared about was that it did work. Usually.
When I opened my eyes again, the buzz of conversation and laughter roared back into focus and the looming darkness of the basement was gone, at least for the moment.
Remember who you were before, Kori. I had to remember and become her again, or I might die without the chance to claim vengeance or reclaim the woman I’d been.
I straightened my dress—stupid fucking sequins—and squared my shoulders, then took one more deep breath and stepped back into the fray.
That was the only way I could think of this night and hope to succeed. The party was a battle to be fought, not with bullets, but with pointless social gestures and small talk. I could do this. Every polite smile would find its mark. Every swallowed curse would block a blow. And every bitter concession made to polite society would bring me one step closer to the goal. To signing Ian Holt and protecting my sister.
If the party was a brawl, then Holt was my enemy, but he couldn’t be beaten with fists or knives. He could only be lulled into submission—into lowering his guard—with subterfuge. With careful answers and gestures of compliance.
I could play that part. I’d have to play that part. Starting now.
I watched him as I closed in on my target, dodging hits from other combatants—Jake would call them guests—even as I armed myself with two fresh glasses of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter, an unwitting accomplice in my campaign.
Holt wasn’t bad-looking. In fact, he was actually kind of hot, blessed with broad shoulders, a strong chin, and the smooth, dark complexion only mixed parentage could give. Or maybe that was the champagne talking. I could toss back vodka all day long, but I’d never been able to think clearly on anything fancy. Probably from lack of practice.
While I was still several feet away, two familiar silhouettes stepped between me and my goal. They were both brunette and curvy, and less than two years bound, yet eager to make names for themselves. They were also on Jake’s shit list for refusing to believe after one crack at him that he could not be tempted to stray from his wife, even for a double dose of sin served hot and ready.
Within seconds of their arrival, Holt looked ready to flee the premises. I exhaled slowly and donned my mental armor, then stepped back onto the front lines, right between the two brash sluts, who gaped at me like I’d just insulted their strappy footwear.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” I said, handing Holt one of the glasses so I could link my arm through his. I couldn’t come up with a believable reason why they’d have to excuse us, so I didn’t bother. I just steered him away from the wild hyena women and through the crowd, half enjoying the angry looks they shot my way.
A victory is a victory. The venue is irrelevant.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the rescue,” Holt said. “But I’m forced to ask, in the interest of self-preservation … exactly how well armed are you right now?”
I laughed, and it wasn’t even forced. Probably because even with the smile hovering on the edge of his expression, his joke wasn’t really a joke—he was actually asking.
“Guns leave unsightly bulges in an evening gown.” Which I was only wearing under direct orders. “Tonight, what you see is what you get.” Jake had made it clear that I had not yet earned back the privilege of carrying weapons in his territory, after letting him get shot. “But don’t worry, there’s enough security in here to rival the U.S. Mint. No one could possibly get an unauthorized gun through the door.”
“I wasn’t worried about getting shot,” Holt said, as we wound our way through the crowd. “Perhaps ritualistically castrated and dismembered …”
“Okay, I’m sorry about the threat,” I said, though that wasn’t really true. “But they say you can’t underestimate the value of a good first impression.”
He stopped walking to frown at me. “Your idea of a good first impression is to threaten a man’s groin and his life in one breath?”
I shrugged. “Why? Would taking a breath in between improve the delivery?”
“I suppose not.” He drained the last inch of champagne from his glass, then set it on an empty tray as a waiter passed. Then he turned back to me, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “You’re not what I expected from Jake Tower’s envoy.”
“What did you expect?” I was honestly curious.
“Someone like her.” Holt nodded at something over my shoulder, and I turned to find Nina, Jake’s personal assistant, schmoozing with the lieutenant governor, one hand on his arm, her gaze locked with his as she laughed at whatever asinine story he’d just told. I’d heard every story he had. They were all asinine.
I started to ask Holt if he’d rather have Nina show him around—surely Jake wouldn’t make me play recruiter if the recruit didn’t want me around after all—but he was already speaking again, this time watching a group clustered near the windows on the west wall. “Or someone like your sister.”
I glanced at him in surprise, then followed his line of sight again to where Kenley stood against the wall, Jonah hovering near her like a kid eager to show off his prom date, and I realized Jake had probably told his brother to stick close to her, to remind me of what was at stake with this job.
Everything. That’s what was at stake.
Kenley and our brother, Kris, were all I had left, and Kris had his hands full with our grandmother. Kenley was my responsibility, and I couldn’t let her down. Even if that meant conning some clueless asshole into service at Tower’s whims.
“Kenley would make a terrible tour guide,” I said, more to myself than to him, still watching my sister play the wallflower. She wouldn’t give Jonah any excuse to touch her. “She doesn’t get out much.”
“Out of what?” Holt asked, and I forced my mind back to the conversation at hand.
“Outside. Jake keeps her close at hand. Because of the nature of her work.” And too late I realized how that probably sounded.
“Your sister lives here? In Tower’s house? Do they …? Um …?”
I scowled. “No, my sister isn’t screwing the boss.” Nothing could be further from the truth. “She’s his top Binder—the only one he really uses anymore—so he keeps her close to keep her safe. She has a small apartment near here.” And she was always under guard.
“Oh.” Holt looked relieved, and briefly I wondered why he cared who Jake was screwing. Was he a prude or a perv?
“I used to live here, though,” I said, picking at the seams of his reaction. “In this house.”
“You used to …?” He glanced from me to Jake and back, and I could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes as he tried to puzzle out a polite way to ask a crude question.
I rarely bother with polite. Makes things much simpler.
“Were you and he …?” Holt let the question trail off to its obvious conclusion.
“Do you ever finish a sentence?” I asked, and his cheeks darkened slightly as his brows rose in challenge.
“Do you ever think before you speak?”
I blinked, surprised. Jake said impulse control was my biggest character flaw. I’d always assumed he meant my tendency to hit first, then survey the situation as an after thought, but Holt was clearly caught off guard by the verbal version of that.
“That’s your problem.” I backed slowly toward the foyer, leaving him to follow. “You think too much.”
“I don’t consider caution and forethought a problem.”
“It takes you forever to order at a restaurant, doesn’t it? And to pick out a