My eyes narrowed. Because with every word he said, I was thinking more and more about stabbing Owen Grayson and taking the chance I could get out of the mansion before someone found his body. But I decided to play it cool—for now.

“What do you want?”

“I just want to talk.” Owen held out his arm to me.

“Shall we?”

I stared at his arm, thinking how easy it would be to brush it aside and bury my knife in his heart. He knew what I was thinking. The knowledge flashed in his violet eyes, but his arm never wavered, never lowered. His gaze never left mine. For whatever reason, Owen Grayson wasn’t afraid of me. Which piqued my curiosity. At least enough for me to slide my knife back up the sleeve of my dress.

Fucking curiosity. Going to get me killed one night.

Maybe even tonight.

I took his arm. “So talk.”

Owen tucked me in close to him, and the heat of his body washed over me. He smelled rich and earthy, almost like… metal, if metal had any real smell. His arm felt like steel, even through the fabric of his tuxedo jacket. For the first time, I was aware of him as a man, as someone of the opposite sex. Owen Grayson was decidedly attractive, with his strong body and chiseled features. But what really set him apart was the fact that he radiated confidence the way that Mab Monroe did magic. That hint of power, that confidence, made Grayson interesting. And definitely someone worth watching.

Especially since I was still considering killing him.

We walked down the hallway back toward the ballroom.

At first, I thought we would go straight there, but Owen Grayson paused and opened one of the doors that led outside. We stepped out onto the stone terrace that lined this side of the mansion, and Grayson shut the door behind us.

The night air was cool, especially since my dress was still damp from where I’d scrubbed away Jake McAllister’s blood. Antique-looking iron street lamps lined the terrace, providing soft, hazy illumination, while wide stone steps led down to a garden beyond. Low moans and sucking sounds drifted up to us, and several dark shapes writhed together in various gazebos in the garden. Other couples stood up against trees or used some of the stone statues for leverage. The party must have livened up a bit, if folks had already come outside to fuck on top of Mab Monroe’s prize-winning roses.

Owen Grayson meandered down the terrace, with me at his side.

“I have to confess I was quite surprised when you strolled into the ballroom tonight,” Grayson began. “I hadn’t expected to see you here, especially not wearing that cheap blond wig.”

“Don’t care for blondes, do you?” I sniped.

“Sassy brunettes are more my style.” He grinned.

I didn’t respond.