And her mouth—subtle pink lips with a pronounced Cupid’s bow that quirked almost imperceptibly at the corners when she spoke—was more distracting than it should be, drawing my attention with each word.
She was smaller than me in a sculpted rather than delicate way. When she’d allowed me to guide her from the building I’d noticed the line of her back, and the way her dress curved over the soft arch of her hips, but there was no vanity in how she moved.
Her requests lingered in my mind long after her perfume had faded from the air. Not diamonds, not status— she’d asked for open sky and her sister’s face. I’d already dispatched my cousin Helena to locate Amara before I’d even loosened my tie that night.
The calculation behind her quiet words had caught me unprepared. It was the way her mind worked. The thought before every answer as if she were dismantling a bomb rather than having dinner conversation. Beauty becomes wallpaper when you’ve seen enough of it, but that kind of intellect—razor-edged and veiled behind perfect composure—that’s the kind of weapon you either wield or die by.
So when Cassian pressed for details, I swallowed the truth whole. Men in my position guarded their intentions about women like her with the same vigilance we protected our territories, leaving no avenue for retreat.
Tonight’s dinner would merely confirm what I already knew. This transcended simple intrigue. I’ d discovered something exquisite in the rough, something irreplaceable. And history had proven that anything of value I coveted inevitably bore my mark.
When I saw her again, the alliance would be a footnote.
I needed to witness firsthand what kind of woman emerged from the shadow of a monster like her father, needed to know if she recognized the power forged in that crucible of cruelty had already tempered her into a woman capable of standing beside me.
CHAPTER SIX
Time since morning had dissolved into a haze of sameness. Around me, the household staff moved with their familiar caution, eyes darting away from mine whenever our gazes threatened to connect, as if sustained contact might shatter some unspoken rule.
It was all monotonous.
I wasn’t permitted to leave the house, and I had no desire to watch movies or surf the web when I grew tired of reading. I showered early and longer than necessary. It wasn’t about cleansing. It was about control—one of the only things I still had. Afterward, I sat at my vanity, wet brushing my hair until it gleamed.
I couldn't decide which bothered me more, anticipating Alaric Kostas's presence again, or recognizing my own anticipation.
By that evening, the house had transformed into a living thing. Staff adjusted already-perfect place settings, wine decanted on the table exhaled its promises. Down the hall, my father's voice flowed with practiced warmth, testing his charm like a counterfeiter testing his bills before transaction.
A soft knock at the door. "Come in," I said, and Pedro appeared in the doorway. "He's arrived," he murmured.
The question of when he'd returned from leave hovered on my lips, but I swallowed it. Pedro and Dion remained the only untainted elements in this house.
With his barrel chest, broad shoulders, and that salt-and-pepper mustache that quivered whenever he suppressed a smile, Pedro resembled a retired enforcer who still commanded respect. Silver threaded his once-dark hair, and though his beard never quite achieved neatness, his warm brown eyes held both kindness and sorrow. Age had slowed his movements, yet when he folded those thick arms across his chest, my father's men straightened their spines.
I rose abruptly, hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles from my dress as if perfecting my appearance might somehow complete me. Outside my room, everything reeked of furniture polish mingling with the food—expensive and suffocating.
Pedro shadowed me, keeping a few respectful paces behind that never changed. The weight of his concern pressed against my spine without him saying a word but just like everyone else, he could never do anything to help me, and I wouldn’t ever ask him to.
I stopped before crossing into the dining room.
The archway framed him like a portrait.
Alaric stood at the edge of the table, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side. Behind him, night pressed against the windows. At the sound of my approach, he half-turned. What crossed his face wasn't interest or assessment. It was acknowledgment, as though he'd been waiting, expecting me all along.
My father occupied the head of the table like a throne, lips curved in anticipation of the meal to come, both food and whatever game he'd orchestrated tonight.
"Selene," he gestured toward me. "I believe you're acquainted with Mr. Kostas."
"Yes," I said, the single syllable carefully neutral.
Alaric closed the distance between us with deliberate steps, his frame eclipsing mine as he bent toward me. His lips grazed my cheek—not quite a kiss, more like a brand—while his hand found the small of my back, fingers pressing just hard enough to make my breath catch
“I’ve been thinking of you since last night. You look beautiful.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine, his breath warm against my skin. My father's attention darted between us, his satisfaction almost palpable, a businessman witnessing the successful execution of terms rather than two people exchanging names.
"Please," my father said, gesturing to the seat opposite Alaric. "Let's eat."
I moved to my chair, aware of Alaric's eyes following me. My navy silk dress rustled against the seat. Alaric remained standing until I settled, then lowered himself into the seat beside mine.
