25
KEIRA
I'm still sitting at the kitchen island, trying to calm my racing heart when I hear rustling from the pantry.
"What the hell are you doing?" I speak as loud as I can to Octavian without breaking what I'd call a whisper.
He doesn't answer, just continues rummaging through my food, and when he pulls his hand back out, he's holding a gun.
I blink. "Did you just get a gun from my pantry?"
"Yeah," he says, checking the magazine without looking at me. "I stashed it in a bag of chips you don't eat."
My jaw drops. "Are you serious? What if I wanted to eat them?"
He slides the magazine back into place with a sharp click. "Then you would have found a gun."
"You are nuts, Octavian.”
He finally looks at me, and just smirks. "No, Keira. Come on. I put it in a side panel I found, just in case."
Another knock sounds at the door, louder this time, more insistent.
He turns and walks down the hall, gun held low at his side. I slide off the kitchen chair and creep to the corner of the hallway, peeking around the edge to watch him approach the door.
He checks the peephole first, then opens the door, his body angled to block entry. He's keeping the gun behind the door, out of view, so I guess that's a good sign.
I shift my head to try and see out, and I catch a glimpse of someone in a brown uniform. It's a delivery guy, and he holds a clipboard and something else.
The man says something I can't hear as Octavian signs awkwardly with his left hand, takes whatever the man hands him, and shuts the door. He turns around as he inspects a large envelope in his hand, like he's half-convinced it might explode.
When he seems satisfied it's not going to detonate, he walks back down the hall toward me.
"For you," he says, holding it out to me.
I take it, fingers brushing his. The contact sends me back to less than thirty minutes ago, when those same fingers were gripping my hips, pulling me back onto him, making me scream his name.
I swallow hard and focus on the envelope.
The paper is thick, expensive. Cream-colored with gold foil embossing along the edges. I recognize it immediately.
"It's the Shadowharbor Foundation's major fundraiser gala," I say, tearing open the seal and pulling out the invitation. The lettering is elegant, scripted in gold ink.
You are cordially invited to the Annual Shadowharbor Foundation Gala. Black tie. November 12th. The Fairmont Mandarin Plaza.
That's one week from now.
"They overnight invitations?" Octavian asks, his tone skeptical.
"Yes." I flip the card over, scanning the details on the back. "It's one of the biggest events in Boston. Think politicians, corporate bigwigs, Boston's elite. Everyone who's everyone will be there," I say, looking up at him. "Big donors. Power players. The works."
I look back down and read it over again, my mind already cataloging who will be in attendance. Shadowharbor's board. Their major investors. For sure someone connected to the Morrígan Order.
I look up at Octavian. "You know I'm going to this, right?"
He leans against the wall, rubbing his chin with the barrel of his gun, his dark eyes distant, thinking.
"What?" I ask.
