King's Horses: Savage Fall Duet Book 2 (The Savage Fall Duet) Page 2

  Sure, our family has regularly attended the annual gala—but never once have we arrived penniless and scandalized.

  “It’s okay if you aren’t ready. You don’t have to listen to Hunter,” he adds partially beneath his breath. “I can handle him.”

  Oh, Hunter. As he liked to reiterate, we Hollingses have attended the Sebastiáns’ annual benefit gala every year since the dawn of time. To avoid doing so now would raise more suspicion than we could weather. After all, paupers must choose their battles wisely.

  “It’s not just him,” I reply softly.

  “Forget the rumors,” Ronan hisses without looking at me. “The tabloids print whatever crap they can make up to sell papers. But if you insist… I think you look beautiful.”

  I bite my lip to smother a groan. He means well—I know he does. But the woman in my reflection isn’t beautiful by any standards. Her pale skin hides a sickly hue, tainted by secrets she can’t reveal. A vicious scar claims the right half of her face, reddened and scabbed, but her eyes draw the most concern: They’re empty—despite how wide she makes her smile.

  King’s men, Snow, a cruel voice reminds me as I rummage through the makeup scattered on my vanity. A dash of pale lipstick doesn’t banish dread. Don’t you see? Nothing can put you together again.

  “I’m fine,” I insist without taking my eyes from the mirror. Am I trying to convince Ronan or myself? “Besides…it’s been ages since I’ve seen Sloane.”

  “She tried calling you earlier,” Ronan remarks, a polite way of phrasing: she’s tried contacting you for weeks. “If you’re not ready to go out, maybe we should—”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat for the umpteenth time.

  “Good. But… Are you sure about this?” He fingers the collar of my modest black cocktail dress and my shoulders slump in defeat.

  He has a point. The long-sleeve garment resembles something better worn at a funeral. My hair doesn’t help matters any, slicked back into a bun as tight as its short length allows. The look is a far cry from the colorful couture creations I’m known for wearing, and the contrast doesn’t escape me.

  As shallow and stupid as I was just a few months ago, at least I had something then that I lack now. Hope sounds far too dramatic a term to describe it. Maybe it’s naïveté, I used to be so fucking naïve.

  Pretty dresses and lovely colors can’t disguise the terrible lies drilled into me since birth. Someone clawed them out into the open, and the truth has finally seeped through the cracks.

  Two months free from the hospital and I feel no less broken.

  Not that I can say any of this to Ronan. Not the truth about my parentage or the real culprit of the man who assaulted me all those years ago. At least when it comes to Hunter, I only need to smile. Like a true Hollings, he’d rather focus his attention on reassembling our broken kingdom than waste time trying to fix me.

  “Are you ready?” As if on cue, my other brother sticks his head through my bedroom doorway. He’s the ivory contrast to Ronan, wearing a tux in a light shade of gray.

  “Yes,” I say, contorting my lips to match his grin. “In just a minute.”

  “Good. You look…nice.”

  I don’t miss the look he and Ronan share before he retreats down the hall, and I watch him go, fingering the hem of my dress. “Maybe I should change?”

  Ronan quickly averts his gaze. “You know what, Snowy? How about I get you something to eat before we leave? Give me five minutes.” He practically runs off, leaving me trapped before my vanity and alone with the stranger staring back at me.

  My brothers aren’t the most nurturing of siblings, but this hurts the worst of all: the blatant ignoring of the elephant in the room. The way they both look at me as though they’re afraid I’ll crack at any minute. To prolong the inevitable, they dance on eggshells.

  And I’m so tired of the fucking charade.

  Then do something about it, a part of me hisses. Frustrated, I push back from my vanity table and turn to the small pile of clothing I left on the bed.

  This room is on the top floor of one of Mayfield’s premier hotels, decorated to excess. The view beyond my window is enough to command a steep price point—and deep down, I know we can’t afford a single night, given our current finances. How Hunter and Ronan managed to avoid having us thrown onto the street, I’ve yet to discover.

  I don’t want to.

  Maybe the stress of worrying about such matters is why they focus so much of their attention on me? Ronan himself purchased these dresses, paying for them only God knows how. I finger one: a flashy red cocktail dress from my favorite designer’s private line. The strip of silk probably cost more than a week in this penthouse suite, and he offered it to me like a paramedic administering a last-ditch dose of adrenaline.

  Sighing, I strip my black dress and slip the red one over my head. God, it barely even fits. The neckline gapes over my flat chest and flares out at my waist. Ronan must have gotten a larger size. To drill it in?

  Without long sleeves to hide behind, the grotesque creature I’ve become eyes me warily from the mirror. He’s won, Snow, she tells me. Just admit it already.

  And maybe he has.

  My hands shake, pawing at the flared skirt as if trying to find my old self lurking in the threads. All I find is loose bits of satin and, as a last resort I fish a pair of socks from a chest of drawers, recalling an old cleavage trick of Sloane’s. Three socks stuffed into each bra cup add some lift to the front of the gown. My hair I leave loose around my shoulders, salvaged by a gold headband. Repeated washes have rinsed out most of the dark-brown dye that had stained it, leaving the once fiery curls a rust-colored hue. A swipe of red lipstick along my mouth makes me look somewhat human again at least.

  Maybe I’m not beyond repair just yet…

  “Wow!” Ronan exclaims when he returns and finds me adjusting the final touches to my improved ensemble. His mouth cracks into a real smile as he places a plate of crackers on my vanity. “You look amazing, Snowy.”

  He’s still lying. But this time, if I squint, I almost believe him.

  “Thank you.” I march over to him and take a bite of a cracker without being prompted. Once I’ve mechanically devoured three more crackers, he extends his arm.

  “Shall we?”

  Together, we meet Hunter in the foyer, and he does an exaggerated double take of my new appearance.

  “Dazzling, Snowy,” he says before grabbing my hand to give me a spin. He’s a better charmer than Ronan, but his eyes always give him away. It’s not my dress he’s observing, but my legs, and my arms, and my hips.

  Because, without anything to hide behind, there’s no escaping the awful truth: I’m a shadow of who I used to be.

  Something in my facial expression must change, because suddenly, both brothers stiffen, their smiles even more forced. “You look beautiful,” they chirp in unison.

  I let them rattle off more hollow compliments and bundle me in my coat before I exit the suite, one man on either arm. Tension taints the air, even if they don’t want me to sense it. After two months, there’s a reason they’re dragging me out tonight, of all nights.

  Not even trauma can keep a Hollings from the pursuit of money and power. We’re off to see the wizard, with the hopes of making our fortune back—and I’m the last shiny trophy they have left to auction off to the highest bidder.

  Considering that my ex-fiancé, Daniel Ellingston, was not only disgraced but fell off the face of the Earth, Snowy Hollings is open to a new master. Let the bids start at zero.

  It isn’t like they tell me as much, though they don’t have to. Ronan keeps stroking my hair while Hunter makes sure to stand by my side, keeping me in plain view, lest we pass a rich, old baron on our way to the car. Who can blame them? I sure can’t. We’ve performed the same song and dance for so long, I don’t think they even realize how it makes me feel.

  Worthless. Like one remaining sliver of the Hollings Estate yet to be burned to the ground.

  “Are you sure about this?” Ronan asks while helping me into the back of a cab. But I’m not the one he’s looking at. He and Hunter are communicating nonverbally again, trading loaded glances above my head like I’m not even here. “Maybe it’s too soon—”

  Hunter and I reply in unison.

  “She’s fine.”

  “I’m fine—seriously.” I disentangle my arms from them both and enter the cab alone.

  Something in the atmosphere changes, so potent that I can taste it: nerves. They sizzle from Ronan, obvious in how he keeps tugging at his cufflinks. Hunter fares no better, scowling out the window.

  If I smile wider, perhaps he’ll stop reaching for my hand every five minutes? I lift my lips at the corners only to feel his palm rasp over mine regardless.

  “I can’t wait to see Sloane,” I say, forcing enthusiasm. “It will be nice to chat with her again. I’m sure she’ll have all the usual suspects in attendance.”

  “Maybe,” Ronan mutters, frowning. “But I want you to stay close tonight.”

  Irritation flares, making me clench my teeth. “Why?”

  “No reason,” Hunter says smoothly, beating Ronan to the punch. “We both want you to have fun tonight.”

  “Fun?” Ronan all but growls. Suddenly, he sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Damn it. Snowy, there’s something you should know—”

  “We’re here,” Hunter interjects while adjusting his tie.

  Sure enough, the cab pulls onto the circular driveway of the Sebastiáns’ breathtaking Italian-style villa. Towering at four stories and sprawled over countless acres, it’s the bohem
ian counterpart to our family’s once-traditional estate.

  My throat tightens as I envision Hollings Manor. I haven’t seen the property since the fire, but I have no trouble imagining the destruction: heaps of twisted wood and ash. Do I wish it were still standing? Weeks later, I’m unsure of the answer. So much hell lurked within its beautiful walls and gilded fixtures. Maybe it’s better off burned to memory.

  “Snowy?” Still tugging at the collar of his tux, Hunter exits the car first and holds out his free hand for me. The moment I take it, he clutches my fingers as if I’m a balloon in danger of drifting off. “Are you ready?”

  He hauls me forward without waiting for a response. Ronan appears by my side, and between the two of them, I feel like a princess being shepherded to her doom by two executioners. Someone’s signed my death warrant, but I won’t know who until the very end of this charade.

  There’s no choice but to keep pretending until then.

  Wearing our smiles like masks, we join the press of elegantly dressed guests ascending the curved staircase leading to the mansion’s entrance. Up ahead, I can make out Sloane, who’s greeting guests while dazzling in black silk. Something that could be regret pinches my rib cage, constricting my heart. I haven’t seen her in so long. I’d almost forgotten just how charming she can seem when I don’t have a fiancé for her to steal.

  Speaking of which, how much of a spectacle do I make without my ring? My eyes trace the crowd with renewed interest only to find curious faces staring back. And no wonder. It strikes me now that this is my first time being seen in public since…

  Since before I met Blake Lorenz.

  Ronan mentioned the tabloids, but I know he’s hidden the most salacious issues from me. Still, I gleaned the gist of them from articles I caught lying in crumpled balls around the suite. Hunter is a criminal. Ronan is a careless drunk, and I got the most dramatic title of all: recluse, suspected of a nervous breakdown over my family’s demise.

  “Snowy?” Hunter’s grip tightens as he lowers his mouth to my ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “N-nothing,” I croak, but I can’t stop running my fingers through my hair. Its cropped length offers no protection from prying eyes.

  One of the first things Ronan did when I left the hospital was hire a hairdresser to cut it to a proper bob—again, with no explanation of how he managed to pay for it. I don’t even have enough curls left to disguise my healing scar.

  Humpty Dumpty Snowy’s irreparable cracks are visible for all to see.

  “Shoulders back,” Hunter mutters, and I balk, casting him a wary glance.

  Papa used to say that very phrase, though admittedly harsher. “Shoulders back. Chin up. Remember who you are: a goddamn Hollings.”

  Rather than question his motives, I give Hunter the benefit of the doubt. Following his lead, I lift my chin into the air and hone my focus on the Sebastiáns’ ornately carved entryway festooned with creeping vines. It’s the only way I can keep moving.

  When we finally reach the head of the procession, I hesitate. Inches from Sloane, I’m struck by the depth of my transformation. I used to be like her once. Smiling prettily while kissing wealthy billionaires on their cheeks and showcasing my enticing figure. So intent on her act, she doesn’t even notice our approach until Hunter shakes her hand.

  “Snowy?” Her brown eyes widen over my frame as her mouth forms a perfectly shaped O.

  A heartbeat later, I find myself bombarded.

  “Snowy!” Sloane exclaims while burying her face in my shoulder, muffling her musical accent. “I’ve missed you so much. Come. We have so much to catch up on.”

  She turns, dragging me toward the expansive foyer. I start to follow, but Ronan’s grip on my opposite hand tightens. When I look back, he loosens his hold, but his worn smile only unnerves me further.

  “It will be all right,” he murmurs. “Just…stay close, okay?”

  I nod, but I’m swept away by Sloane before I can question him. She steers me straight toward a gaggle of giggling socialites holding court near the back of her family’s ballroom, and my brothers are instantly forgotten.

  Unlike my family’s stubbornly “old money” taste, the Sebastiáns relish in gaudier décor. Gold walls and white marble floors baste everything in a warm glow. A bit like hell. The moment I catch the first sly glance directed my way, another comparison comes to mind: fresh prey dragged into a lion’s den.

  Blood is in the air. Sloane does her best to give my hand a reassuring squeeze, but even she can’t resist the promise of a spectacle. After my family’s downfall and my sudden disappearance, I’m an easy target.

  “Snowy!” One of the women we approach wrinkles her nose while casting me an appraising glance.

  I recognize her instantly as Patsy Abernathy, my old high school tormentor, still blond and beautiful. Stunning in emerald couture, she poses with her left hand in full view—though it’s hard to miss the giant rock sparkling on her finger regardless. The irony of it all almost draws a laugh from me. The last time I saw her, I publicly disinvited her from my wedding.

  My, how the tides of fortune have changed.

  “How wonderful to see you again,” Patsy croons sweetly. She flicks a strand of blond hair from her face, allowing her ring to catch the light. Any more contorting and her poor hand will be one wrong move away from developing a stress fracture. “Such awful news about you and Daniel.” She feigns a pout, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “I’m sure you have just the best tales to tell about your little getaway. Where did you go?”

  The four women positioned around her lean in, watching me avidly to gauge my reaction. Even Sloane.

  Dread washes over my skin. I find myself crossing my arms over my chest as if to guard the battered muscle within. Where did I go? I went into the Devil’s private dwelling, where he crawled inside my head and tore my world to shreds. The worst part?

  I allowed him to.

  Tears prickle behind my eyes, but it’s easier than expected to blink them back. Rage is a welcome antidote to pain. This blond bitch and her hellions have no idea what real agony is. I’ve crawled out of the flames of hellfire.

  A trollop like her won’t drag me back down.

  My lips contort into an expression I haven’t worn in so damn long. The nuances of it greet me like an old friend: a slow, stretching smile and slightly narrowed eyes. I meet Patsy’s gaze head on and hold it until she blinks. The moment she does, I clasp her hand in mine.

  “Oh, how attention-grabbing!” I exclaim as I brush my gaze over her ring. “A bit like old-fashioned costume jewelry. Not many people are brave enough to pull off that look.”

  A burst of nervous laughter erupts from the nearest guests. Good. Now to go in for the kill.

  Still smiling, I step closer to Patsy and boldly sweep my hand along her shoulder. She shudders, another betrayal of weakness. Three months away from the Mayfield society scene and the tools for navigating it return like instinct. The way most people breathe without thinking, I manipulate. And intimidate. Papa taught me well, after all.

  Garnering pity was always my chosen weapon, but not tonight.

  “I wouldn’t want to bore you about the nitty-gritty details of that mess with Daniel,” I say, raising my voice so that it’ll travel to every nosy onlooker pretending not to eavesdrop. “As for my family’s current predicament, well, I’m so glad you’re here. You know better than anyone what it’s like to weather a scandal or two.” Like one of her father’s many public affairs—with women half our age, no less. “But anyway. Let’s cut right to the chase.”

  As Patsy blinks in shock, I move in again, politely nudging her from the center of the conniving little group to claim the spotlight for myself.

  “Enough about that,” I declare, squaring my shoulders. “Who wants to learn all about my scar?”

  TWO

  The lies were almost fun to spin, in retrospect. As far as Sloane and her cohorts are concerned, I spent the past four weeks in Tahiti, where I went scuba diving with a handsome instructor and injured my face learning to cliff dive into the sea. Sure, it’s not the most engrossing of tales, but it did the trick.