Her rogue heir

A blasted orgy

*Dimos*

It is a blasted orgy. The affair at Padfoot’s. I was able to slip in through a door that led into the gardens instead of coming through the front where I would have had to show an invitation I didn’t possess.

After making some discreet inquiries of the servants beforehand, I knew people would be wearing masks, so I would be unidentifiable, able to move about with a measure of anonymity. However, in addition to the mask, I expected people to wear clothing. Especially after I had gone to the bother of borrowing evening attire from my brother. It was a slightly tight fit, not that anyone was going to notice as they were too busy shedding their own apparel.

In all honesty, most are not nude, not completely anyway. A couple of she-wolves are gallivanting about in gossamer sheaths as though they are wood nymphs. Three men has thrown inhibition and their clothing to the wind and are chasing after them.

I am no prude but certainly prefer privacy in my intimate encounters with women. One clad creature, untamed moon-shaded hair flowing around her, comes up to me and trails a slender hand along my chest.

“I’m Aphrodite. Whom might you be?” Her voice is soft and refined. Is she from a high pack? With the domino hiding three-quarters of her face, I can't be sure if I knew her in my previous life.

“I'm Zeus.” I say.

She laughs, the sound ringing out like crystal bells within a cathedral at Christmas. “Zeus is over there.”

Following the direction of her tilted head, I see a man lounging on a huge pillow resting on a dais, scantily clad women spread out over other pillows feeding him what appears to be grapes and olives. He wears trousers and unbuttoned shirt sleeves. No mask, but then he is the host and is expected to be here. Padfoot.

As I begin to swivel my gaze back to Aphrodite, I catch sight of someone else I recognize, someone I shouldn’t. I narrow my eyes. I have to be mistaken. It is only because I had hoped she would be here, and yet she moves as gracefully as Henry. But the hair trailing along her back is a mahogany shade that glistens in the wavering light provided by the flickering flames of the candles that adorn this room. No light to illuminate the surroundings more clearly, but then decadence prefers darkness.

I can't take my eyes from the not-so-mysterious woman as she makes her way among the guests. She wears a gold domino with feathers at the side, the shade matching her loosely flowing golden satiny attire that is cinched at the waist by a thin braided rope.

I know that chin, shaped like the bottom of a heart. More, I know those lips. They have visited my dreams often enough since I first met her, with more deliberation since she joined me at the rogue. And oh, the wicked things they did to me when I was lost to slumber would cause Satan to blush.

“Excuse me,” I say to the goddess beside me before cutting a swath that would put me directly in Henry’s path.

She is adept at avoiding reaching hands that would have brought her in for a passionate embrace. Everything within this chamber, no doubt within this residence, is done passionately, and I resent that she is here, probably searching for someone to replace my father’s role in her life, at least for the night.

What do I care who crawls into her bed? I have made my position clear, and yet I have never regretted the utterance of words so much. I could have used a different phrasing to indicate I would never fancy her, but the hell of it is I do. And it angers me to be so drawn to her.

So I have been deliberately cruel and crude in order to send her running. The man I saw a year ago would have never done such a thing. Perhaps I should stop trying to understand the past and just move on with my life. I am weary of the frustration and the fury. Of the cold permeating my soul, of never knowing warmth. Of distrusting everyone, especially her.

As I make my way to her, she sidles between two gents, and I notice the pocket watch dangling from the braided rope at her waist. What an odd adornment for an affair such as this. Is she obsessed with time or merely the memory of her father?

Slowing my pace, I decide against confronting her immediately in favor of observing her more closely. With her head slowly moving from side to side, she takes in her surroundings, apparently making mental notes of where she is less likely to be noticed.

Periodically, she changes her course, skirting areas with gentlemen who are busily engaged with other women. While she seems to be part of this soiree, I also have the impression she is striving to blend in and not be detected. But I am certain it is her. Henry. The height, the curves. The grace with which she glides among the guests.

But the lustrous shade of her hair confuses me. Was the other one a false piece? Or is this one? The vibrancy of the red would certainly make her stand out. This one not quite so much. Still, she is not one to not shine. Her confident bearing is almost a physical presence. Like that of a lycan princess. When one enters a room, people immediately notice. The lycans command attention, as does she.

She glances around, a soft smile turning up the corners of her mouth as though she is exceedingly pleased with how the night is going. I fight the urge to duck. With my black trousers and tailcoat, ivory waistcoat, pristine white shirt, and gray tie not resembling those of someone who comes from the streets, and the simple black domino mask covering the top half of my face, I think it unlikely she will recognize me. If she has spotted me, she certainly gives no pause before floating into a nearby corridor and disappearing from sight.

Keeping my gait quick but measured so no one would think I am giving chase, I follow, entering the hallway in time to see her slipping into a room at the far end and shutting the door behind her. I peer over my shoulder.

Because the grand salon is naught but flickering shadows and this passageway even darker, it would be difficult for anyone to see what is going on in there. Not that anything is. It is deserted.

I march forward until reaching the chamber she now occupies. I consider rapping on the door or simply bursting in or abandoning my need to confirm that the woman I have spied is exactly who I think she is.

And if she is? If she is engaged in a secretive tryst within those walls? Do I truly want to witness a man enjoying the delectable fruits she offers? Those lush lips, that wide mouth, that succulent body, those legs that judging by her height have to go on forever? Perhaps she is auditioning for a new lover. I should return to my own efforts to discover why my father might have mentioned Padfoot, if the Alpha has somehow been involved in leading my father to his ruin. I turn on my heel.

Hell and damnation.

I grip the latch, shove open the door, and cross the threshold. She glances up from where she is hunched over the desk, her discarded mask resting beside the lone lamp providing light, and studies me, one second, two before returning her attention to whatever she has been doing when I stride in.

“Get the hell out, Softpaw,” she commands in a tone that would brook no argument from a gentleman, but then I have long ago given up claim to being one.

Therefore, I quietly close the door behind me and cautiously approach. She appears to be holding her father’s pocket watch... only it seems to have a minuscule telescope attached to it. Quickly she takes something out, puts something shaped similarly in, and peers down. Click. Rapidly she goes through the motions again. Click.

I come around to stand beside her. A bit of foolscap is flattened on the desktop, and she is moving that odd contraption over it. Click. Click. “What the devil are you doing?”

“None of your affair.” She huffs.

Another click sounds, this one louder and more ominous. The opening of the door.

“Demonstrate your intelligence,” she demands in a whisper, just before grabbing my lapels, falling back upon the desk, bringing me with her, and latching her mouth onto mine.