Opal’s eyes widened, her breath puffed out of her mouth, and her body completely stilled. While it only took her a second to recover, blink away her surprise, and plaster a bland smile on her face, her reaction ratcheted up my unease.

“Please proceed into the main exhibit area,” she said in a low, smooth voice. “Everything’s been set up in there.”

“Thank you, Opal,” Finn replied, and gave her one of his patented charming smiles.

She tipped her head at him and gave me a polite nod, although her sharp gaze lingered on my face a few seconds longer than it should have.

Finn pouted a little when he realized that he didn’t have her full attention and that she wasn’t going to fawn all over him like most women did, but he tucked his invitation back into his tuxedo jacket. I took his arm again, and we headed toward the entrance. All the while, though, I was aware of the giant at my back. I didn’t like having people behind me, and my palms began to burn with the desire to reach for one of my knives, put it up against her throat, and demand to know what she was staring at.

Instead, I turned and smiled at Finn, as though he had said something amusing, allowing my eyes to slide past him to Opal.

“She’s watching me,” I murmured. “There’s a line of people in front of her waiting to get inside, and she’s watching me walk away instead of dealing with them.”

Finn shrugged. “Maybe she likes women instead of men. You do look rather fetching tonight. Or maybe she recognized you as the mighty Spider. Infamy, thy name is Gin Blanco.”

I grimaced at his flippant tone, but he had a point. Opal wouldn’t be the first person to freeze up upon realizing who I was. So I put her out of my mind and looked ahead once more.

Still, I couldn’t quite ignore the itching sensation between my shoulders—like someone was going to bury a knife in my back before the night was through.

* * *

Finn and I walked up the shallow steps and entered the museum. High, vaulted ceilings, crystal vases full of roses, lilies, and other greenery perched here and there, stone planters bristling with bonsai trees tucked into the corners, slick marble floors and walls: Briartop was just as opulent inside as it was on the outside. Everywhere you turned there was another piece of art to look at, whether it was a series of soft, floral watercolors, a silver etching of a waterfall tumbling over a rocky ridge, or a woodcut of a bear ambling through a field of wildflowers.