The music swelled, but the club’s magnetic allure had started to wane, an undercurrent of tension creeping into her limbs with every minute that passed.
Maybe she had misread him. Or maybe she hadn’t been bold enough. Or maybe she had been too bold. Maybe the events in the storeroom had been a mistake. Maybe he had only humored her. Maybe it hadn’t meant to him what it had meantto—
She clenched her jaw, forcing the thoughts away as she wove her way back to their reserved table.
The VIP lounge remained exactly as they’d left it, except now, sprawled at the center of it all, was Ursula. Reclined against the plush leather couch, she barely spared Emmaline a glance, too preoccupied with the young man currently stretched across her lap.
His wings—Goddess above, his wings—were a work of art. Wide, iridescent, like stained glass. When he moved, the colors fractured, casting patterns of gold, violet, and sapphire across the dark leather. And Ursula, ever the connoisseur, had one perfectly manicured hand trailing over their delicate membranes, while the other squeezed the curve of his ass.
Emmaline flopped down beside her with a huff, crossing her arms.
“I take it we won’t see Margo until dawn?” Ursula finally glanced up.
“Yep.” Emmaline sank deeper into the couch, kicking off her heels with a grumble.
“I can’t believe it’s already been that long.” Ursula exhaled, then gave the beautiful fae in her lap another indulgent squeeze. He chuckled, wings fluttering in response, before twisting to face her, his bare chest gleaming under the club’s low lights.
“Yep.” Emmaline grabbed the tall bottle of Fion Dathliad and tipped it back, taking a long, slow pull straight from the neck, letting the smooth, floral warmth coat her throat.
“Whoa, no need to gulp the nice stuff!” Ursula shoved the winged fae from her lap, careful not to rumble his wings, reaching for the bottle before Emmaline could take a second drink. Then, she studied her for half a beat, a frown settling in. “He didn’t come?”
“Nope.” Emmaline leaned forward and snatched the bottle back, and this time, Ursula didn’t stop her.
“Damn.” Ursula exhaled, then patted the young man’s head before giving him a dismissive flick of her fingers. He pouted, but didn’t protest as he stood and sauntered off.
“You want me to kill him?”
Emmaline choked mid-sip. “No!” She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, brows shooting up. Whether Ursula was joking or not, she genuinely couldn’t tell.
She looked up toward the large enchanted crystal orb suspended above the main dance floor—a swirling mass of liquid stardust and shifting constellations that tracked the passage of time in slow, deliberate rotations.
The night was barely half over.
“He’s probably just running late,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.
Ursula arched a brow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” She slid her shoes back on and pushed up from the couch, hands braced against her knees before straightening fully. “I’m going to take another turn.” She mustered a weak smile. “If you don’t see me again, you’ll know I found him.”
“Right.” Ursula was already scanning the crowd for her next distraction. “I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass the time.” Her gaze landed on a familiar figure weaving between tables. With an idle flick of her hand, she caught the waitress’s attention. “More wine, Linette.”
The blue-skinned fae grinned, already pulling a fresh bottle from her tray.
“Good luck.” Ursula’s dark purr followed Emmaline as she slipped back onto the dance floor. Every flash of green she caught in her periphery sent her pulse leaping, only to crash into a fresh wave of disappointment when it wasn’t him.
He’d come. Wouldn’t he?
The music swelled, the pulsing bass pressing against her ribs. But the longer she stood there, the more the anticipation curdled into something sour. Turning toward the bar, she pushed through the crowd, scanning each face as she passed. No green hair. No wolfish smirk. He wasn’t here. She kept looking anyway.
By the time she reached the club’s entrance, the cool night air bit at her skin, raising a trail of goosebumps along her arms. She stepped past the threshold, just far enough for the heavy bass of the current song to dull behind her.
“Where are you, Deyric?” Her gaze lifted, finding the nearly full moon, pale and watchful above the rooftops.
The words barely left her lips before she forced down the lump in her throat, cursing the way her voice wavered. With a sharp breath, she turned abruptly back toward the club, determined to shake off the gnawing disappointment, to throw herself into the music, into anything or anyone that would silence the thoughts spiraling in her head.
But the moment she stepped forward, she collided directly into someone.
“Sorry,” she muttered, head down, already moving to slip past. Before she could, though, a firm hand closed around her wrist, halting her in place.
