Rakan half-turns toward Camille but somehow keeps his eyes solely on me. “Good evening, Iris. Ms. Thorn. I hadn’t taken you for regulars at this kind of establishment.”
“It’s gracious of you to call it that, Mr. al-Rashid,” Camille replies without missing a beat. “I’m only a regular when work requires it of me.”
“But you do regularly badger me, which is how I ended up here,” I mutter under my breath.
Rakan’s lips twist into a mild smile. Camille ignores it entirely and turns to the man beside him. “And you must be Mr. Eiriksson. I haven’t had the pleasure before tonight.”
The man inclines his head. The rest of his body is very still, in a way only monsters can ever be. A tentacle emerges from his back, swaying slightly to the music. When he speaks, his voice is lower than I’d expected. “Ms. Thorn. The pleasure is mine. I’m familiar with your work, at least by reputation.”
“You’ve made my evening, Mr. Eiriksson. But I don’t think you’ve met my best friend. This is Iris Beckett. Iris, Sigurd Eiriksson. He’s the CEO of Eiriksson Maritime.”
Of course he is. Because all of Rakan’s friends own half the planet, the ocean, or the skyline. Even I’m not oblivious enough to miss the weight this man has in international trade.
But he doesn’t look like a shipping mogul right now. His eyes lock onto me. They’re glowing blue, with no pupils, and so deep they almost seem empty. But there’s a warmth in his gaze I hadn’t expected from a man who is so visibly composed.
“Miss Beckett. It’s a genuine pleasure. I’ve been told you’re responsible for a notable improvement in my friend’s mood lately. I’m glad to be able to thank you in person.”
“He’s joking, Iris,” Rakan says. There’s a faint note of resignation in his voice. “He has a very dry sense of humor and a tendency to apply it without warning.”
Sigurd scoffs. Or maybe his tentacles shuffle against the table. I can’t quite tell. “I’m not joking,” he answers. “I haven’t joked since approximately 1612.”
“That’s not even slightly true,” Rakan counters.
It’s an endearing exchange, and I’d like to see more of this Rakan. He seems relaxed with his friend, and it’s nice in an almost unnerving way. But Camille has other ideas.
She squeezes between the two men and leans toward Sigurd. “Mr. Eiriksson. Will you walk me to the bar? I have a lot of questions about your friend, many of which need answers right this instant.”
Sigurd sets his glass down on the table and gives Camille a small nod. “With pleasure, Ms. Thorn. I expect we’ll find a great deal to discuss.”
They move off into the press of bodies near the side bar. Within ten seconds, I’ve lost sight of them entirely. And now Rakan and I are alone.
“I should apologize for this,” Rakan offers. “I feel like you weren’t really looking forward to seeing me tonight.”
There’s something so candid about his words, an effortless honesty that lacks artifice. It seems out of place in a creature who brought me priceless flowers at my workplace. And yet, it feels more genuine than anything I’ve seen of Rakan so far.
I have no intention of lying to him. “My plans for the evening involved a footbath, a book, and zero djinn,” I admit. “But Camille was insistent.”
“Well, I’m selfishly glad you’re here, Iris,” Rakan replies. “Even though I have no doubt the book would’ve been more enthralling than my presence.”
I let out a small laugh. “I suppose it depends on the book.”
He offers me his arm, and on a whim, I decide to take it. When his fingers brush my bare skin, it takes everything in my power to not gasp. Damn it, this was a horrible idea.
Fortunately, Rakan takes pity on me. “How do you feel?” he asks. “You looked tired when you walked up.”
“It’s the noise and the crowd,” I admit. “I lose the ability to think when there’s this much bass involved. Camille knows that, but… I suppose she must’ve thought this was important enough to risk it.”
“Or maybe she thought it wouldn’t matter,” Rakan replies, humming lightly under his breath. “Would you like the room to be quieter, Iris? I can manage something close to that, if you’ll allow me to try.”
The question comes without a flourish. There’s no hand gesture, no readying of magic, no sense that he’s about to perform something for me. It’s the same voice he uses to ask whether I want him to leave the change.
Before I can stop myself, I nod. Just like that, the smoke begins to rise from the floor around us. There’s no spoken word and no movement I can see. Rakan is watching my face as it happens, the same way he does in the cafe.
The smoke drifts over us and softens into a haze. The bass drops to an almost indiscernible pulse, and the voices of the crowd flatten into something far away. The strobes from the dance floor become a quiet shimmer through the dark.
The air inside the column smells of warm stone and ancient spices. It’s Rakan’s scent, the one I’ve been catching across the counter every morning since I met him. I take the first deep breath I’ve had since we came through the door.
“Not entirely fragrance-free,” he drawls. “I haven’t worked out how to summon scentless air, Iris. I hope this is an acceptable substitute.”
