The Broken Protector Read Online Nicole Snow

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors: Nicole Snow Advertisement1

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One, there’s no one else on it.

Two, it’s out of the way, tucked off in a darker corner where no one will notice me.

And three, it’s close to a winding staircase of dark, glossy wood that looks like it leads up to the private chambers of the house.

This is my chance.

I settle down on the sofa, pulling myself together for a moment and resting my champagne on the wooden top of the little upholstered pillar in the center.

No way I’m touching it now, especially not after leaving it unattended with a rich weirdo I barely know.

For a few minutes, I watch the glitterati swirling around.

This isn’t anywhere I want to be for much longer, anyway.

Glances are turning more heated.

A few people are breaking into spontaneous make-out sessions on the dance floor, a few I even know are married or seeing someone who isn’t the person in their arms.

Some of the seating arrangements become petting zoos, hungry hands sliding under skirts and down pants.

This may be a charity gala, but people are definitely here to give away more than their money.

Not my scene.

Not my circus.

I can’t see Ulysses or Montero anymore, but I wait a little longer just in case. Ulysses has a bad habit of materializing out of nowhere.

When the crowd shifts enough so they’re a barrier between me and the rest of the floor, it’s go time.

Gathering my skirts, I dash to the stairs.

I’ve got to be quick. This red dress makes me a beacon in any normal lighting.

Glancing over my shoulder every other step and trying not to trip, I race upstairs.

No one looks at me. Nobody notices.

They’re all drunk on booze and lust.

I don’t stop until I’m behind a pillar, flattening myself against the striated marble, breathing hard.

Okay.

Okay.

I look around again, then eye the dark, narrow hall leading off the small railed walkway circling the ballroom and overlooking the main floor.

Try to be as quiet as possible.

I kick my shoes off and hook two fingers in them. The velvety carpet helps, making my stride stealthier.

With one last glance over my shoulder, I slip into the hall and let the shadows envelop me.

This place is a labyrinth.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for as I peek into one room after another.

Of course, there are a ton of bathrooms, a music room, a billiards room, a study, and what looks like guest rooms with adjacent servants’ quarters.

I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into any of the house staff, but I guess they’re all too busy taking care of the crowd downstairs.

It’s like they have specialized rooms for everything from playing darts to reading. The library is such a dream I actually linger, unable to help being impressed.

All those old books.

Their smell rolls up my nostrils like ancient perfume.

Lucas would love it.

So do they have a special murder room, too? I wonder.

I snort at myself—and nearly choke on it when the next room I peek in, there’s the starlet I saw getting out of her limousine when we pulled up.

Only now she’s snorting a messy line of cocaine off a very attractive young man with his waiter’s uniform open, making a table out of his washboard abs. Stifling a squeak, I jerk back before they see me.

Definitely not my crowd.

I creep past the doorway, but they never notice me. Thank God.

After checking a few more rooms, I finally reach the end of the hallway and another stairwell leading up to the next level.

That’s where I find it.

Lavish multiroom suites take up entire wings of the building. Some of them are unoccupied, but a few are clearly being used by the family.

If I can find the one belonging to Lucia and Montero—assuming they even share living quarters—I might be able to find something. Emma’s phone, something personal of hers that maybe he’d have kept like any serial killer keeping a trophy from his victims.

But I stop as I open one door on a luxurious suite decorated in walnut wood and burgundy velvet.

I know it’s Ulysses’ room immediately because I recognize some of the fine suits thrown casually over the sitting room furniture.

He’s got the most expensive tastes with so many fine collectors’ items, including the bits and pieces of women’s jewelry scattered on dressers.

On the table of the vanity, against one wall, too.

My throat closes as I step closer. My own washed-out reflection stares back at me with the image of my own sick realization, my horror, on full display.

But I’m not looking at a reflection or at myself.

I’m stuck on a photo tucked in the mirror’s corner.

A shot of Emma Santos, but not one from her Instagram.

Because in this one?

She’s wearing the same red dress I found her in. It swirls around her, captured mid-spin, just as she’s turning to look coyly back at the photographer.

My insides twist in a knot.


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