Hammond stepped forward, holding out a goblet of something that absolutely wasn’t wine.
“A drink, Lord Cristian? For old time’s sake?”
Cristian didn’t even blink. “No.”
Delighted laughter rippled through the court, like predators hearing a rabbit sneeze.
Ambrosia glided closer. Her dress whispered against the marble. She angled her body between us—subtle, intentional—and leaned in toward Cristian.
Too close.
Her head dipped. Her lips moved. I couldn’t hear the words, but IsawCristian go still. He didn’t tense. He froze. Every line of him locked into place, a storm caged behind bone.
Ambrosia’s smile sharpened with satisfaction as she drew back.
Then, in a voice sweet enough to curdle blood, she said, “Enjoy the ball, darlings.”
Hammond added, “Do try.”
And just like that, the court drifted away, fabric swishing, masks gleaming, smugness trailing behind them like perfume.
Cristian didn’t move.
I tugged gently on his hand. “Hey. Are you okay? She didn’t—what did she say?”
His jaw flexed once. “Nothing of importance.”
Which was an absolute lie. EvenIcould tell. But his expression was carved from stone, and this was not the place for a therapy-level debrief.
So, I nodded.
He slid an arm around my waist, guiding me forward as he resumed scanning the room—every corner, every shadow, every balcony.
Whatever Ambrosia whispered had shaken him. I just didn’t know how. Or why.
We kept walking, weaving into the ballroom’s glow. Cristian inclined his head politely to a tall man whose eyes gleamed too brightly to be human—shifter?—then nodded once at threewomen in sapphire masks whose energy practically hummed. Witches, probably.
I didn’t know for sure what any of them were, but Cristian did. He moved like he’d walked through courts like this for centuries. Like he knew exactly which beings would bow and which would bite.
But his attention kept drifting up. To the balcony. To the shadows.
He was looking for Cassian.
And I stayed close. Closer than I technically had to. His hand stayed threaded through mine, warm and steady, guiding me through the glittering ballroom.
Protecting me.
We hadn’t come here as equals. But we were moving through the room like two halves of something neither of us could name yet.
Cristian slowed. His thumb brushed my knuckles absently.
He exhaled, low and frustrated, then looked down at me.
“Come,” he murmured.
Before I could ask why, his hand slid down my arm—warm, firm—pulling me into him as the music shifted.
Strings rose and drums deepened. Something ancient unfurled through the ballroom.
