Isabelle stood up and smoothed her dark skirts. “A few days ago I might have discouraged you from such rebellion, Cassidy,” she said. “But not today. Not anymore.” She went to the wardrobe and drew out Cassidy’s best evening dress. “Let me help you don your armor.”
When Isabelle was finished with her, Cassidy knew she was as ready as she’d ever be to face the guests she was forbidden to meet. Isabelle opened the door and pronounced the way clear, then kissed Cassidy’s cheek and wished her good luck.
There were servants in the corridor and by the staircase, but no sign of Telford. Cassidy could have used stealth to cross the house, but she chose to walk tall and bold, impelled by the anger that smoldered low and steady in her chest. Several of the footmen she passed seemed about to speak or move to stop her, but she looked at them and they fell silent, exactly as if she’d been Braden himself.
That was a power she knew was wrong, and they had no reason to fear her. But she took the advantage she was offered. She reached the drawing room in a matter of minutes. Aynsley, who waited just outside the doors with maids and footmen, glanced at her in some trepidation but didn’t block her way.
Tension struck her like a tangible force the moment she entered the drawing room. She paused just inside the doorway, disoriented by the heavy sense of mingled ill will, anxiety, and wariness. No one noticed her, and she was able to make a quick assessment of the people gathered there.
Braden was far across the room and his back was to her, but she knew from his posture that he was waiting—waiting and watching for something to happen, and not something good. Danger was in every line of his body under the perfectly cut evening clothes.
Except for Braden’s stance and the pall of apprehension in the air, the gathering would have seemed like an ordinary party of acquaintances. Rowena sat at the piano, playing a lively melody as if nothing were wrong. Quentin stood beside her, turning the pages of the music. There were seven other people in the room: three women and four men, one of whom was speaking to Braden. One couple was dancing to Rowena’s music. Another man and woman stood off to themselves, and the remaining couple sat at the chairs grouped next to the piano. All of them wore neutral or pleasant expressions, and every single one was a mask.
What were they trying to conceal?
She raised her chin and stepped into the room.
Quentin, at least, had seen her. He left the piano and strode to her side.
“Cassidy,” he whispered, taking her arm. “It wasn’t such a good idea for you to come down this evening.”
She pulled her arm from his grasp. “Don’t you think I have a right to know what’s going on?”
His gaze swept over her as if he were seeing a stranger. “As a matter of fact, I do. But it’s far more complicated than you can possibly—”
“Understand? How do you know when you won’t give me a chance—or tell me the truth?” She stared at him, and he was the first to look away. “Will you tell me the truth, Quentin?”
He looked up, the corner of his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I’ll do my best, but there won’t be much time for explanations.”
“Something is about to happen, isn’t it?” she said. “I can feel it. What’s wrong?”
With a quick glance around the room, he drew her close to the wall. “What you sense is only to be expected whenever so many werewolves of different families gather together,” he said. “It is natural among us to defend our territory and challenge those who would trespass. These assemblies are relatively new among our kind. We’ve learned to set aside instinct in favor of civilization—and survival.” His smile was openly mocking now. “If we had not, there would be none of us left to further Braden’s Cause.”
The Cause. Always the Cause. She took in a deep breath of the stifling air and shook her head. “There’s more to it than that. I—”