I hate how steady he is. How sure. How easily he sees things I don't want seen.
And I hate that for one small, insane second, I don't feel entirely alone, and that's starting to feel good.
Ugh. I break the stare first, turning toward the bar with more force than necessary.
I reach the bar and order the strongest whiskey from Ireland they have, neat as Daddy always insisted, ignoring the bartender's raised eyebrow.
"Rough night?" he asks, sliding the glass toward me.
I don't answer.
The whiskey burns going down and I breathe through it. I let it settle in my chest before taking another sip.
I glance back toward where Octavian was standing, but he's moved.
Gone.
Or worse, closer probably.
I scan the room again, my fingers tightening around the glass.
Why the hell am I looking for him?
What I need to be doing is my part. Figuring out what the hell Shadowharbor's angle is before it blows up in all our faces.
I stay at the bar, nursing my whiskey, watching the room like a hawk.
That's when I notice him.
A man in a clean-cut suit, standing near the entrance to the side hallway.
He's too polished for staff and not polished enough for donors, and he's staring at me.
It’s not the casual, appreciative stare I'm used to, this one is assessing.
I hold his gaze for a moment, my fingers tightening around the glass.
He doesn't look away.
Doesn't smile.
Just watches.
Then he takes a black feather out of his pocket and smiles at me, turns, and disappears.
I set my glass down, almost choking on my drink.
What the fuck?
But before I can move, a hand touches my elbow.
I turn sharply, ready to bite someone's head off, and find Octavian standing beside me, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Who was that?" he asks, his voice low.
"I don't know."
"You looked at him like you did."
