But it’s his eyes I focus on. Deep violet one step and impossible, angry blue the next.
For some reason, I recognize them.
Recognize the British accent.
And I know I’m in trouble.
3
Seafoam-green eyes stare up at me, wide and unfocused like two shards of opaque glass.
Strands of golden-brown hair have fallen from the intricate bun at the nape of her neck, and her red dress sits awkwardly on her tits. Her chest heaves, a high tide waxing and waning as she gulps down mouthfuls of air.
Deep-red stains mar her chest, painting her skin like a serial killer’s wet dream.
But as I step closer, it’s not panic I see.
It’s excitement.
Or at least a close cousin to the emotion, radiating from her tanned skin in harsh waves.
I’m not exactly sure what I’ve just stumbled upon, but I’ll admit I’m no longer cross over the detour I took to get here.
On a reflex, my arm extends, fingers spreading outward.
She blinks.
Doesn’t move.
I clear my throat and withdraw my offer, adjusting the necktie at the collar of my suit. All black, like Alistair suggested, to keep me as inconsequential as possible. Makes it far easier to hide in the shadows and prey on the unsuspecting.
“Well, this is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” My brows arch, and I wait for her to respond. After a few more moments of stillness, I exhale, step over the corpse, and lean against the balcony. “Not every day you witness a murder. Which of us do you think should tell the party downstairs?”
Tapping my fingers along the wooden beam, I scan the landscaped yard. My eyes rove over sprawling green grass, circling around the cobblestone courtyard and the maze of hedges that lead to a secret garden and the beach beyond.
You can’t access the shore unless you scale the stone wall surrounding Primrose Manor, but it’s there, nonetheless.
Most of the guests linger inside, where they’re more likely to uncover family secrets.
I’m not interested in them.
I already know them all.
What I want is revenge.
And while I’d planned to make patriarch Tom my target, I don’t necessarily mind starting with his beloved daughter instead.
This path promises much more fun.
Heaving a long sigh, I bend so my forearms rest on the rail. The girl exists in my peripheral, still mostly unmoving, although now I see she’s staring at the dead man. Studying him like some sort of science project.
“It might behoove you to have a witness explain the turn of events.” Pausing, I wait for her to refute this. Still, she doesn’t. “Although, I can’t be certain of what transpired before you stabbed the lad. Perhaps it’s best if you make the announcement. Party’s yours, after all.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her chin jerk in my direction; the movement is infinitesimal. Something you’d miss if you weren’t paying the utmost attention.
But I can’t possibly see anything else.
“How do you know who I am?”
Frowning, I turn around. “Are you saying you don’t know who I am?”
Again, she just blinks.
My eyes narrow, something irritable percolating in my gut.
Taking a step forward, I reach up to stroke my chin, letting my sleeve ride up a bit. A leather corded bracelet is tied around my wrist, pinned together by a black W-shaped charm.
If she recognizes the Wolfe family insignia, she doesn’t let on. For some reason, that irks me far more than her previous silence.
She was there the night I almost finished her father off. The ensuing arrest and trial were quite publicized on the island, and my face was plastered everywhere for years to keep the general public informed about the monster living among them.
Thing is, they don’t know even the bloody half of it.
“You’re damaging my ego, love.” Blowing out a breath, I crouch down and inspect the body. Blond hair sticks to his face, perpetually frozen in shock. “Here I’d been hoping our little tête-à-tête would be informative, but it appears you enjoy lying too much.”
“I’m not lying, and I don’t really give a shit about your ego.”
“Well, that’s terribly rude. My ego could save your pretty little arse right about now.”
Turning my head, I meet her soft gaze.
“I don’t need saving.” Her eyebrows knit together, a glare contorting delicate features.
One side of my mouth curls up. “Don’t you?”
Pushing to my feet, I circle around her slowly. Each crunch of my boots on the concrete has her curling into herself.
Almost like a lioness preparing for an attack.
“It was self-defense,” she says, and I see her right hand twitch.
Just once, then again in the direction of her victim, and for a moment I wonder if she’s finally cracking. Going back to the scene of the crime and experiencing fear without the barrier of surprise.
I pause at her back, my eyes drifting over the length of her body; in this position, she’s practically presenting herself to me on a platter, and I’m man enough to admit that her gentle curves in that tight red dress affect me.
Unwilling to entertain the lust even as it scrapes at my esophagus, I force my gaze to the back of her head. It shifts slightly, and I can feel her searching. Seeking me out so she can keep up her defenses.
Perhaps Tom Primrose’s puppet is more self-aware than the tabloids give her credit for.
“Who’s going to believe you?” I ask, reaching down to brush a strand of hair off her shoulder. I shouldn’t touch her at all, but I feel compelled to see if she’s as soft as she looks.
My chest tightens as the silken lock brushes over my fingertips.
Even softer.
“Maybe if you’d rammed the heel of your hand into his face or pushed him off the balcony. People would have a much easier time swallowing that tidbit as truth.” Tilting my head, I glance at the broken paintbrush lying on the ground beside the man’s hand, having rolled out of it when he lost consciousness. “But you came prepared. The move was calculated… at least, what I saw of it. Unfortunately, they’ll find that far more fascinating than the nature of your encounter beforehand.”
Her breathing becomes less labored as the seconds pass. Soon, the music from the party downstairs filters through our air, drowning out nearly everything else.
My shoulders lift in a half shrug. “It’s okay to admit you were out for blood tonight, Ms. Primrose. I know I was.”
More silence. Makes the air thick, rife with omissions.
I suppose she’s back to ignoring me.
The sound of her fingernails scraping against the ground isn’t audible, but I feel it in my spine, nonetheless. With a smirk, I walk as lightly as possible in the direction she’s inching, zeroing in on the weapon so our timing connects.
My shoes halt directly in front of the brush just as her fingers wrap around it. They curl tight around the handle, and she’s already midstrike when the toe of my boot swipes out, pressing down on the back of her hand.
Securing it to the ground and trapping the brush beneath.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Tipping her chin up, she glares. Flames whip violently behind her irises, darkening the glassy hues. When she tries to pull away, I push down harder.