The guard stared down at me impassively as he held me off; he must have been almost seven feet tall, and his shirt was big enough to make three dresses, and not cocktail-length, either: formal wear. I tried to give him my war face. “Better step off, Tiny,” I told him. “Me and the princess have business.”

“Do we?” Naomi laid a gentle hand on his arm, and Tiny moved for her. She gave him an absent smile and took his place in front of me as Oliver slammed his office door behind her. She winced a little at the noise. “Oliver might have been nobly born, but he has the manners of a pig farmer.”

I didn’t waste any time. She was turning on the charm, and I couldn’t afford to let her defuse the ticking bomb of anger inside me. “It’s about Jason—”

The kind glow in her eyes died instantly and turned into something about as warm as an iceberg. Her hand flashed out and fastened around my arm in an unbreakable grip, and she turned to Tiny with a sudden, brilliant smile. “There’s no need to disturb others with this nonsense. I’ll take her to my quarters.”

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Hey! Not agreeing!” I tried to pull free, but of course that didn’t do any good at all. “Let go, bitch!”

“I stand corrected,” she said smoothly, with another apologetic look at Tiny. “Oliver’s hardly the only one with the manners of peasants. You should respect your betters.” I tried to drag my feet, but she pulled me effortlessly down the hallway, opened another unmarked door, and pushed me inside.

Then she locked the door behind herself and leaned against it as she let me go. I backed off, holding my sore arm, watching her with wary intensity. It was really hard to see her as a threat. She had a certain … delicacy that made her seem vulnerable and breakable.

That probably worked really well for her.

“You’re biting my brother,” I said. “And he says you’re going to turn him vamp. Are you?”

She said nothing. It was as if I hadn’t spoken at all. She swept a gaze over me, head to toe, then back up again. “Of all the clothing you could have chosen.” She sighed. “Why is everything you wear either cast off by some ridiculous mummers’ show, or filled with sharp edges? You could be attractive, in your way. It pains me to see Michael wasting his potential on you.”

“Hey!” I’d expected a lot of comebacks, but not … fashion critique. “Excuse me, Project Runway, but I asked you a question! Are you biting my brother?”

“Jason,” Naomi said thoughtfully, as if she was running the name over in her mind. That could take a while. She was about a gajillion years old. She walked away from the door and over to a beautiful old sofa, something in bone white wood and pale silk that matched the rest of the antiques in the room. The whole place looked like it had been ripped out of some French palace before the guillotine had gotten started—and so did she. I could actually imagine her with those high powdered wigs and giant sideways skirts from the movies. “Jason—ah, the felon.” She shrugged and settled herself on the sofa, gracefully, of course. “He’s of no concern to you.”