Married (16 page)

Graves was a man powerful enough and ruthless enough to defeat and kill a witch who held the combined power of the secondary branch. Smart enough that he’d been cut off from the majority of his Family’s power yet still carved out a niche for himself in witching politics. Strong enough that few dared to stand against him.

The lobby door swung open and bounced off the doorstop with a crash that had Tulah jumping. Graves swung around. Charles stood in the doorway as the gray sky above him did its best to brighten the foggy London morning.

“Muso has arrived,” Charles said.

Graves latched onto Tulah’s wrist and tugged her toward the long counter at the back of the lobby. “Send him through to the yellow sitting room.”

Tulah cast a glance over her shoulder in time to see Charles’ eyes bulge comically. The man’s mouth worked for a moment before he managed to ask, “You won’t meet him here? As he arrives?”

“I think not,” Graves answered, pushing open the swinging door that led deeper into the warren of rooms on the hotel’s ground floor. “Bring Muso to me in the sitting room.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Tulah whispered. She pulled against his hold with no success. “You insult him!”

“That was my intention.”

“You play a dangerous game.”

“Not as dangerous as Muso is playing.” Graves pulled her past an empty ballroom half-decorated for the betrothal dinner.

Tulah hurried to keep from being dragged. Most of the doors along the corridor were closed and Graves didn’t bother with them. He shouldered his way into the small sitting room at the very back of the building. It was oddly shaped but boasted a large window and a fireplace, far and away the most comfortable room in the hotel.

The sad view through the window was of the scrubby garden and the high brick wall containing it. The scene of her first escape attempt mocked her, so Tulah turned her back to the glass, barely seeing the yellow-striped wallpaper and expensive, framed artwork.

Her eyes fell on the delicate settee, the fabric ragged at the bottom but still pretty enough that the decay wasn’t the first thing noticed. Today, the first thing Tulah saw was the man planted in the very center of the seat, enjoying the fire blazing in the hearth in front of him.

Daniel Levy’s unwelcoming glare quickly smoothed into a politely curious veneer. Graves’ body tensed, his fingers gripping Tulah’s elbow until her arm went numb. She heard him draw a short breath through his nose, saw his jaw bulge. He towed her toward a wingback chair next to the settee and pushed her into it.

“Sit!” he barked. He turned to Daniel as she obeyed. “Daniel, I wasn’t expecting to see you in here.”

Tulah held back her snort of disbelief. If Graves hadn’t expected the Levy Father, it was only because it was so early in the morning. Daniel had been haunting the room since his arrival at the hotel, practically claiming it as his own. Daniel’s occupation of the space and its access to the garden had prompted Tulah’s first escape attempt. Once the man had left the room, she’d thought no other would enter.

She’d been wrong, though, and Charles had found her convulsing on the floor. She’d only been back once since then, with Georgeanne, Ileana and Eliasz on their investigative circuit of every potential exit the hotel offered.

Daniel hefted his brows, letting his gaze roam over Graves imperiously. Arrogance and dominance were more than an expression on the other man’s face. His authority was a physical presence, but Tulah was still surprised to see Graves back down, even as his hackles rose.

Very curious, nebulous suspicions of Daniel’s influence over Graves infiltrated Tulah’s mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen it happen, but she’d thought it was because Graves wanted to keep the Levy Father happy until the wedding.

Now she wondered.

Daniel’s voice was smooth and cool. “I take it you weren’t looking for me, then?”

Graves gave a shake of his head. “Muso Ngozi has arrived. I requested he be sent back here to greet me.”

Again, Daniel’s brows quirked. “You’re not going to welcome him in the lobby?”

“I don’t plan to welcome him at all.” Graves threw himself into the chair opposite Tulah’s, bookending the Levy Father with a pair of Ngozis. Graves fiddled with his stick, planting it between his knees and twirling until the firelight sparked green through the emerald. “I must suffer his company, since he is the Father, but I don’t need to make his stay a pleasant one.”

Daniel’s jaw firmed. “That would be a mistake, Graves. Show your hospitality.”

“Why bother? The betrothal can’t be undone.”

“You’ve refused to seal it with blood, so he could refuse to allow it to stand. As Father, he has the right to deny the match.”

Graves grinned and a shiver ran down Tulah’s spine. “Even if he did, what difference would it make? We both know this marriage is a mere formality.”

Daniel flicked a glance in Tulah’s direction and pressed his lips together. He said nothing more, but his irritation wasn’t difficult to discern. Tulah held still, barely daring to breathe. The tension in the room climbed, and she knew her presence was the only thing that held Daniel’s words back.

The soft ticking of a clock only underscored the emotions swirling between the men. Tulah felt their irritation against her skin, a cold tingle that had her stiffening and straightening her posture. Drawing as little attention to herself as possible, she shifted to perch on the edge of her chair, poised to jump up and flee at the very next rise of hostility.

The door crashed open. Tulah nearly tumbled to the floor as her body jerked. All eyes swung toward the newcomer, Daniel and Graves jumping to their feet before they’d fully realized who had joined them.

Tulah was glued to her chair. Hope and fear, nausea and euphoria waged war within her stomach. Her lungs locked, her heart stuttered and she clamped her fingers around the padded arms of the wingback. She prayed, hoped and begged the gods that her Father would help her.

Muso was an imposing sight, though he’d aged since she’d last seen him. His expensive suit gleamed in the warm glow of the flickering fire, crisp and clean in spite of the long plane trip. His face was a study of harsh angles—his cheekbones impossibly high, his chin impossibly narrow—and the familial relationship between the Ngozi men was easily seen. Muso’s dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and stubbornness. He reeked of power.

He strode into the room with a dominating sense of ownership, naturally commanding attention and wielding authority. Tulah glanced at Daniel, but the Levy Father was calm and collected, as secure in his own leadership as Muso was. Daniel stood at ease with a small smile playing around his lips, his hand automatically rising to clasp Muso’s.

In stark contrast to Daniel’s comfort, Graves vibrated like a tuning fork. Muscles bulged under his lime green suit, his shoulders were rigid. Graves planted his feet and rested his weight on the walking stick, looking bored even as his body tensed further.

“Father Ngozi,” Daniel said, “I’m pleased to see you. I’m only sorry that I’ve just been informed of your arrival, or I would have sent for Constance to join us.”

“No need.” Muso kept his face still, betraying no emotion as his eyes slid past the Levy Father.

“And where is your wife?” Daniel struggled to chit-chat.

“I wouldn’t subject her to this pit of vipers.”

Pulling away from the welcoming handshake, Muso flicked his eyes toward Tulah, then took a step toward Graves, still insolently leaning against his stick. There was no warning but the raising of Muso’s hand before he slapped Graves across the face. Open-handed, as Graves would strike a woman.

The worst of insults to a Ngozi man.

Terror held Tulah immobile, stilling her breath, widening her eyes. The crack of Muso’s palm against Graves’ cheek reverberated like a gunshot in her skull. Her fingers did their best to burrow straight through the fabric covering the arms of her chair, her spine ached with the seizing of her back muscles.

Graves’ head followed the motion through, turning until his eyes met Tulah’s. She couldn’t look away as the black of his irises glittered with rage and offense. His gaze bored into hers as if she were the cause, rather than Muso. As if she would be the target of his vengeance.

And she knew she would be.

It was one thing for the Family Father to insult him. It was one thing for Daniel Levy, a man to whom Graves had been ceding some authority, to witness the offense. But for Tulah to see it was unacceptable. She knew she would pay a steep price for her presence in the sitting room, though Graves was the one who’d dragged her there.

Cold swept through her, sweat gathered in the small of her back. Her heart contracted, her belly squeezed into her throat. Then Graves narrowed his eyes and looked back to his Father.

Muso’s voice was deep, his accent thickened with thrumming rage. “I vowed to never set foot on this island again and yet I find myself back here.”

“Deepest apologies on behalf of all Englishmen.” Graves cocked his head. “I suppose I should welcome you to my home.”

“Home?” Muso sneered. He looked Graves up and down before spitting on the tip of the younger man’s shiny, white shoe. “Everything the Ngozis own is mine. You sold
my
home and bought a hotel, instead. You will be punished for disposing of my property.”

Graves’ jaw bulged, his knuckles going pale around the stick. His arms flinched and Tulah knew he was exerting great effort to keep from swinging the emerald at Muso’s face. “It’s an investment.”

“It’s a disgrace, just like you.”

“I’m sure you’ll find your accommodations more than adequate.”

Daniel stepped smoothly into the fray. “Father Ngozi, perhaps you’d like to see your suite? I’ll take you there myself, and you can continue your…conversation with Graves once you’ve settled.”

Muso looked at Graves as if he were something vile sliming the bottom of his expensive shoe. “Perhaps that would be for the best.”

“You and your entire entourage are on the top floor of the hotel, in the wing opposite the residing Family.” Daniel clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “I assure you, they are some of the best suites the hotel has to offer.”

Daniel launched into a description that would make any travel magazine proud. The soft closing of the door muffled his words as he led Muso away, but it didn’t latch properly and Tulah could still hear Daniel’s voice for several minutes after the men had gone.

She sat still and silent, wondering how to get out of the room before Graves exploded. Wondering how to leave without drawing his attention. For the moment, his dark, stormy eyes were locked on the door, his face twisted in a mask of rage. She was afraid to move and draw his anger toward her.

“Did you notice, Tulah, that Muso said not one word to you?”

Slowly enough that her thighs screamed in protest, Tulah rose to her feet. “I should leave you to…um… You’d probably like to talk things over with Charles, so I…” Her mind blanked. She couldn’t voice her need to leave before he erupted and, with Graves being as calm as he was, she knew an explosion was coming.

She took a step past the chair. Then another. Every muscle in her body hummed in warning, her nape prickled. She curled her fingers into her palm until she felt her ragged nails pressing deep into her own flesh. She fought for breath and took another step.

Graves hurdled the settee in a burst of energy. He used his stick like an Olympic pole vault, swinging his body over the scalloped back, but raising it high before his feet hit the carpet. Time slowed, dragging interminably, yet it moved too fast for Tulah to dodge the blow. Graves’ biceps bulged, threatening the seams of his hideous coat, and his wrist flicked with a violence she knew she’d never be able to match.

The emerald knob caught her in the ribs, digging deep. Pain flared, breath ripped from her chest. Tulah staggered, Graves struck out again. The stick came down on her spine as she spun away, a fresh wave of heat cleaving into her skin.

“Am I interrupting?” Adam Davenold stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his face impassive, his voice cold in spite of the murderous fury burning in his blue eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

Adam

It took everything Adam had to keep from launching himself at Graves. The man was a statue, the walking stick held above his head, his muscles knotted in preparation for the next blow. Tulah was hunched over, her lips twisted against the need to cry out, pain paling her features and darkening her eyes. Adam barely looked at her, close to losing all control when he saw her at the edge of hers.

Davenolds treasured their women. They would not stand for the abuse of them. Adam, in particular, could not handle seeing another woman abused when he had the means to stop it.

“What do you want? As you can see, I’m in a private meeting with my Family member.” Graves lowered his arm but held the stick at the ready. Though he swept his savage gaze over Adam’s face, the Davenold man held tight to his impassivity.

Adam gave a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Door was open, couldn’t have been too private.”

“This property is mine in its entirety.” Graves’ voice deepened into a purr that had Adam’s muscles tensing, preparing for battle. “I could hold my meeting in the center of the fucking lobby and I would still expect it to be private.”

“Hmm, that’s not how my Family works. We have decorum.”

Graves spoke through gritted teeth. “You are a man who never gained his manhood. Ruled by the inferior sex. Tell me, what is it like to bend the knee to pussy?”

Adam forced a grin to his lips, ignoring the feel of its sharp edges. “What? You’ve never done that? I thought you swung both ways, Graves, but, hey, if you only go down for dick, I won’t judge.”

Graves’ face tightened, his body following suit. Fury was a sparkling halo around him, electrifying the air as his magic burst through his control. Pitiful. Magic was to
be
used, it should never be allowed to use the witch. Adam twitched his fingers, calling his own until it filled his palms like molten lava, held in check by the strength of his will.