An odd kind of peace,he thought.But it was theirs.
And he would defend it with everything he had.
CHAPTER 28
The ballroom blazed with light. Ember paused at the top of the grand staircase, taking in the spectacle below. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls, each one casting prismatic rainbows across the gathered crowd. The walls were draped in shimmering gold and deep burgundy—the Trade Alliance colors—and holographic banners bearing the crests of a hundred prominent families flickered and shifted in the engineered breeze.
She’d attended dozens of these events over the years. As a child, peering through balcony railings while her father worked the room below. As a young woman, carefully chaperoned and presented like a prize at auction. But tonight was different.
Tonight, she descended the stairs as the leader of Duvain Enterprises with a Vultor at her side.
Rykan moved silently at her side, his dark formal attire a stark contrast to the peacock displays of the human elite. He’d resisted the clothing at first, intending to remain in the background, but she had no intention of letting him. The custom-tailoredmidnight blue suit with the Duvain insignia embroidered in silver thread at the collar made him look exactly like what he was—a powerful male who belonged at her side.
The crowd parted as they reached the bottom of the stairs, faces turning towards them with varying degrees of curiosity and calculation. She kept her expression serene, her posture perfect, her hand resting lightly on Rykan’s arm.
Let them look, she thought.Let them wonder.
“Miss Duvain!” A portly man in an unfortunate shade of chartreuse bustled towards them, his jowls quivering with enthusiasm. “How wonderful to see you recovered from your ordeal. Simply wonderful!”
“Thank you, Lord Henneth.” She inclined her head graciously. “Your concern during my absence was noted and appreciated.”
The lie came easily. Henneth had been one of the first to suggest that Marina assume permanent control of Duvain Enterprises. His concern had extended precisely as far as his profit margins.
Henneth’s gaze slid to Rykan, lingering on the golden eyes and the predatory grace. “And who is your… companion this evening?”
“Rykan. He oversees my security.”
“Ah.” Henneth’s thoughts were all too obvious—just a guard. No one to worry about. “Well, can’t be too careful these days, can we? With all the unpleasantness in the outer settlements…”
He prattled on about trade disruptions and labor disputes, but her attention had already drifted. She scanned the room automatically, cataloging faces and alliances, noting who stood with whom and who carefully avoided each other’s company.
The Trade Alliance Ball was the social event of the season—a glittering display of unity among Port Cantor’s most powerful families. In reality, it was a battlefield. Deals were struck in shadowed alcoves. Reputations were made and destroyed over glasses of imported wine. The music and laughter masked the constant negotiation for power, influence, and advantage.
She’d learned to navigate these waters at her father’s knee. Now she would navigate them alone.
Well. Not entirely alone.
Rykan’s hand covered hers where it rested on his arm, a brief reassuring pressure. His expression remained neutral, but she could feel the tension coiled in his muscles—the predator’s wariness in unfamiliar territory.
“Smile,” she murmured under her breath as Henneth finally exhausted his supply of meaningless pleasantries and waddled away. “You look like you’re about to attack someone.”
“I’m considering it.” His voice was low, meant only for her. “That one in the green. He was lying.”
“Of course he was lying. They’re all lying. That’s how these events work.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.” She guided him deeper into the crowd, nodding to acquaintances and offering the expected courtesies. “But this is the game. We have to play it.”
The orchestra shifted into a waltz, and couples began drifting towards the dance floor. The familiar pressure of expectation surrounded her—the unspoken assumption that the Duvain heirwould dance and mingle and perform her role in the evening’s elaborate theater.
She was reaching for a glass of wine from a passing server when a voice cut through the ambient noise.
“Ember.”
She recognized it immediately. The smooth baritone, cultured and confident, carrying the absolute certainty of someone who had never been refused anything in his life.
Aldric Martok stepped into her path, immaculate in silver and white. His dark hair was artfully arranged, his smile precisely calibrated to suggest warmth without actually providing it. He was handsome in the way statues were handsome—all clean lines and polished surfaces, with nothing real beneath.
