Lord Toren settles in naturally, as if he belongs here. Like formality is his second language.
I wait, watching the room. And then—
A hand on my elbow.
I glance up, and Thane is inches from my face. His grip is light, but his expression is . . . pleading.
“Please sit by me,” he says, his voice barely more than a breath, meant for my ears alone.
It’s not an order, but rather a request.
That’s when I see her. Evelyne, standing close enough to him to make a point.
And Thane is not enjoying it.
I stifle a laugh.
The Warlord of the Fire Clan—undefeated in a sparring match, utterly composed in every situation—and right now, he’s looking at me like I’m his only way out.
I arch a brow, letting the moment stretch. Watching him squirm is far too entertaining.
His eyes widen slightly, still pleading.
“If you insist, Warlord,” I smirk.
I move toward the chair beside him. I don’t miss the way Evelyne’s lips press together, or how her eyes narrow just before she glides to the seat on his other side.
Thane exhales and reaches for his goblet. He says nothing, but I feel his relief anyway.
With effortless grace, Thane pulls out the chair on his left—and there’s no mistaking who it’s for.
I pause only a heartbeat before taking the seat.
The shift in the room is subtle, but I feel it. Garrick’s eyes flick between Evelyn and me while he suppresses a grin. I lift my chin as I catch his eye. Garrick winks at me, then reaches for his goblet and takes a long swig of his ale.
Then, just as smoothly, Thane steps around and pulls out a chair for Lady Evelyne. Of course. The gentleman’s flourish.
But the moment stretches just a breath too long.
And I see it—the way her lips flatten, the way her grip tightens slightly around her goblet before she sets it down. She takes her time to sit in the chair Thane has pulled out for her, making a display of it, composed as ever.
But I saw it. She had to wait.
Because Thane chose to pull out my chair first.
And she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
I school my face into neutrality. But beneath the table, my fingers curl slightly in my lap. Very interesting.
Lyra is going to love this.
The others begin their meal, the quiet clink of silverware filling the space. I glance down at the array of utensils—far more than just a fork, knife, and spoon. Too many.
I hesitate, studying the polished silver laid out in precise order. Which one am I supposed to use first?
I watch as each man lifts a utensil with practiced ease. Their movements are refined and automatic.
At the head of the table, Thane lifts his outer fork—just enough for me to notice.
