Doomsday Brethren, Book 04: Entice Me at Twilight by Shayla Black Page B

barometer. In fact, she’d never told anyone but Deirdre. Most people would never believe such a thing, and Mason, who made a good living by dealing in evidence and facts, was less likely than most.
    “I have a … sense that he’s being honest.”
    “Are you mad? He constantly seduces women, no doubt with lies. This is absurd!”
    At her side, Hurstgrove tensed, then glanced at Bram, who nodded. What sort of signal was that?
    In the next moment, His Grace surged forward and hooked an arm around her waist, lifting her, wedding dress and all, into his arms and against his chest. Lest she fall, Felicia instinctively locked her arms around the strong column of his neck. Her bridal bouquet slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
    He strode toward the exit at the rear of the house without a backward glance.
    “What the hell are you doing?” she asked.
    No answer. He simply marched away from his friends, herfiancé, their wedding.
    She wriggled in his grasp. “Put me down! I said I was inclined to believe you. I never agreed that I would come along.”
    His arms tightened around her. “Sorry. I won’t risk you.”
    Hurstgrove was abducting her? Her breath stuttered, and her belly turned over again. In that moment, it wasn’t only her safety she feared for.
    Felicia opened her mouth to protest, but the sincerity of his dark eyes silenced her.
    If not for the danger, she would have fought him, punching, biting, scratching … anything to avoid putting herself in his path and potentially under his spell. But His Grace risked family censure and scandal to protect her from a deadly threat. And he wanted her.
    Which motivated him most?
    “Put her down now!” Mason demanded.
    Hurstgrove didn’t slow his pace a bit. “Sorry. Trying to pop out the back before the paparazzi catch on. I assume you prefer not to have pictures of this splashed across the rags?”
    Felicia glanced over his shoulder to see his friends restraining Mason. They were “other” too, she suspected. None of them looked mad or otherwise deranged, but rather almost too powerful to be human.
    “You fucking bastard! Bring my bride back!” Mason bellowed.
    His mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs, mouth agape. “Simon!”
    “I’ll ring you later, Mum,” His Grace threw over his shoulder, trying to shield Felicia as paparazzi flashbulbs began to stream through the windows and lit up the corridors. Most likely, these images would be front page news. Horror gripped her as she buried her face in Hurstgrove’s shoulder—and inhaled a complex scent of sandalwood, citrus,and man that went straight to her head.
    At the clatter of shoes against the marble tiles, Felicia raised her head, fastening her gaze on the chapel doors in the distance. Most of her guests stared now, faces slack with a shock she discerned even at a distance. Some snapped pictures with their mobiles. Her friends and coworkers all stared, mouths agape. Hurstgrove cursed.
    “Stop!” she ordered. “If danger is coming, Mason—”
    “Can’t help or protect you.
You
are the target. Mason can only be a liability. If you want him safe, leave him here.”
    It sounded like a convenient excuse, and she would have thought so if not for the absence of any cloying, burning scent.
    “This is mad!”
    “And the tabloids will eat the scandal up, which I fear may expose you to …” Hurstgrove paused, sighed regretfully. “Too late now. I know what this monster is capable of and I promise, I won’t let him touch you.”
    She absorbed his protective vow. Why would the self-absorbed playboy care?
    “W-when can I return home? To Mason.”
    He grimaced as he pushed his way into a small parlor, crossed the room in a handful of steps, then muscled his way through French doors and outside.
    Freezing air pelted her, slipping under her dress insidiously. Fresh snow dusted the ground. Wind whipped through her curls, tearing at her upswept do, penetrating her lace sleeves with chill.