He gritted his teeth.

Lust bowed over her hand, letting a bit more of his sin out as his lips brushed across her gloved knuckles.

“His better-looking brother, naturally.”

“Charmed.” Camilla wrenched her hand away, then returned that impressive glare to Envy.

She hadn’t been affected by Lust’s power at all.

“I demand a private audience at once.”

Lust flashed him a surprised look, clearly taken aback too by her complete disregard.

Envy raised a brow, then nodded to his brother and Alexei. “Very well.”

Both men seemed cowed enough by Camilla’s entrance to heed the request.

Once they’d closed the door, he leaned against the table where his drink sat untouched, puzzled by her ability to withstand a demon prince’s influence.

“For someone who wishes to avoid ruination, demanding to be alone with me, unchaperoned, seems quite risky, especially after what I said last night. Unless of course you’re here to fulfill that naughty fantasy.”

He was curious to see whether she’d confront him about that.

She did not rise to the bait, instead pinning him in place with those moonlike eyes.

“Where is the forgery?”

“I assume you mean The Seduction of Evelyn Gray?”

“Do not play a game with me, my lord.” Camilla advanced, only stopping when her skirts brushed against his knees. “Vexley visited me earlier.”

Even though Vexley was nothing more than a pox on a pig’s ass, irrational jealousy seared through him.

“I am disinterested in any lovers’ quarrel you might be having.”

“How unsurprising. It’s safe to assume you’re even less interested in the threats of bodily injury that were made with his hand around my throat, my lord. As you cannot be bothered with all that, just tell me where the forgery is so I can collect it and be on my way.”

Envy stilled.

The heart he assumed to be shriveled and black pounded furiously as he looked Camilla over more carefully.

“He hurt you?”

One word, one look of confirmation, and Envy would have his demon blade in Vexley’s gut within the hour.

Camilla drew herself up, glaring. “Not this time, but he has threatened far worse if the forgery is not returned immediately.”

“That will not happen.” His voice was laced with its own violence.

Camilla jerked back, her eyes rounding as she looked him over closely, seeming to understand that he meant it.

In fact, he found himself suddenly striding toward the door, plan whirling into place.

Perhaps once he was finished with the mortal, he’d gift him to Alexei for a meal.

If Vexley proved to be a player, it would be most beneficial indeed.

“You cannot murder him,” Camilla said, sounding—of all things—partly aghast and mildly frustrated.

He didn’t slow his pace. “I assure you, I can.”

“Allow me to rephrase. You will not murder him.”

Envy finally slowed and glanced over his shoulder, suspicion winding around him like a tangled vine. One look at her stony face and he knew: there was more to this twisted tale.

When it came to Camilla, he really shouldn’t be surprised.

“Why?” he asked.

She swallowed hard, the column of her delicate throat moving slightly.

The very throat that Vexley’s cursed hands had attempted to desecrate.

Rage surged again before he obliterated it. If Wrath could see him now, submitting to his sin on behalf of someone else… the smug bastard would never let him live it down.

“Why won’t you allow me to kill him, Camilla?” Envy repeated.

He didn’t think it had anything to do with morals. At least not fully. He waited, silent, watchful. Allowing her time to give him the truth.

“Because the forgery isn’t the only thing he has of mine, my lord.”

Several beats passed while Envy waited for her to elaborate.

Camilla’s hands fisted at her sides, bunching in her plum skirts. Her anger and despair warred in the space between them.

“If he dies, so does my father.”

“METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING, I mean,” Camilla rushed to add, watching Lord Synton’s face carefully, noting the exact moment he decided against hunting Vexley down. For a minute, he’d reminded her of an angel of vengeance: all lethal grace and divine punishment, charging in to completely obliterate a foe for their wrongdoing.

Looking at him now, at the cold calm and utter control he had over himself, Camilla had no doubt Synton would be capable of murdering Vexley and not sparing another thought once the dastardly deed was done. The fact that he hadn’t done just that indicated that he’d weighed the advantages against the disadvantages and found Vexley to be safe from retribution.

For now.

She didn’t think Synton would glory in the kill, but he certainly wouldn’t mind being the one to dispatch Vexley.

Or, on second thought, as she saw his pupils constrict, perhaps he would thrill in the violence, welcome it with open arms. Which ought to make Camilla wary of him but somehow comforted her instead.

“How, exactly, does one metaphorically kill one’s father?” he asked. “Should I believe one might have also metaphorically killed one’s mother?”

Synton’s tone was cordial enough, but there was a hardness in his eyes, a stiffness in his shoulders, and an undeniable feeling that the man standing before Camilla was nothing more than a feral animal trapped in the cage of expensive suits.

This man liked the darkness, welcomed it; the shadows were where he preferred to be.

Camilla imagined painting Synton that way—his beautiful face emerging from the shadows, the lushness of his lips set against the harsh lines of a harsher expression, wielding a blazing sword dripping with the blood of his enemies.

“Miss Antonius?”

Her name jolted her out of her vision. Camilla shook her head, clearing it. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. And of course I didn’t kill my mother. She left to travel the world. End of story.”

“Enlighten me about your father, then.” He bit out the words as if each syllable gravely offended him.

She took a deep breath. “Vexley is in possession of something that belonged to my father. Something I very much want back. If he’s to be believed, it’s secured outside Waverly Green, and only he knows its precise location. Should Vexley meet a foul end, I won’t ever retrieve it. It’s an object my father treasured, so losing it… it has a great emotional attachment for me, is all.”

It wasn’t the full truth. It had begun one wintry night. Camilla recalled Pierre grabbing a coat and rushing out the door, muttering about a story Camilla’s mother had once told them, years before. This had been toward the end, when he was often caught up in his fantasies of the past, but this time had proved different. Pierre had gone missing for three days, coming home exhausted but proud, the owner of a magical key he’d claimed would change everything.

Camilla had gleaned that he’d bargained for that key on Silverthorne Lane. It was soon afterward that the secret entryways took over his world and the secret gatehouse studio was built.

He’d been a man obsessed, forgetting to eat, barely sleeping; it had been difficult to watch, to try desperately to pull him back to his life before Fleur had ruined it with her tales of shadow realms. But still, after he’d died, the key had felt important. Like it might reveal something Camilla had missed about his madness, if she herself found the right door.

Of course, now she knew she should have pawned it back at the dark market. Instead, she’d kept it secreted away, unwilling to part with it.

Sentimentality often grew fangs and bit a person in the rump.