“Luna, you look exquisite.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I curse the physical betrayal of how his words affect me. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Darkmoor.”
“Alexander,” he corrects smoothly, drawing out my chair, his hand brushing the bare skin of my shoulder. “After all these dinners, I’d say we’re past such formalities.”
The waterfall behind him refracts light across his face, sculpting it into a study of contrasts—sharp jawline, thoughtful mouth, eyes that never quite stop calculating. In any other world, the decades between us might have mattered. But here, where magic keeps everyone in their prime, age is just another number that means nothing compared to power and presence, and Alexander Darkmoor has both in spades.
A server approaches with wine; the same vintage my father used to save for special occasions. The liquid catches the light as it pours, dark crimson threaded with amber shimmer.
“I remember you mentioning this was your favorite,” he says.
My pulse stutters. I’d said that weeks ago, barely more than an offhand comment. Yet he remembered. Just as he did the way Itake my tea, the flowers that make me pause in shop windows, the authors who left fingerprints on my dreams. Every dinner, gift, and conversation feels like being truly seen for the first time in my life.
“You always notice the little things,” I say softly, watching as he lifts his glass with that infuriatingly perfect poise.
“Only about people who interest me.” He holds my gaze. “And you, Luna Ellis, are becoming more interesting by the day.”
The words settle beneath my ribs, hot and heady. “Thank you.”
“How are you holding up?” The shift in his voice is subtle, but sincere. “I imagine these past months have been heavy.”
The tenderness in his tone, so different from the hollow sympathies I’d endured, tightens my throat. “Some days are harder than others,” I admit. “The house feels empty without the hum of Father’s experiments, and the scratch of his pen on research notes.”
He reaches across the table, fingers grazing mine. The touch is gentle, protective almost, and I find myself leaning into it without thinking. “You don’t have to carry this burden by yourself, Luna. I’m here, whenever you need me.”
I turn my hand beneath his, soaking in the heat of his skin. “You make me feel seen,” I whisper. “As though I matter.” He smiles at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Like I could be worthy of—”
“And Aria?”
The question slices the moment in two as his fingers retract. The chill that replaces them is immediate. Even here, even now, my sister’s shadow finds me. But Alexander’s gentle concern reminds me why he needs to know. He cares about both of us, in his way. How could I fault him for that?
“She’s not . . . well.” I keep my voice neutral, but the words leave a bitter film behind. “She barely leaves her room, and doesn’t eat unless I make her.” Each word is measured, each syllable carefully crafted to hide how much it hurts to watch my brilliant sister fade into herself. “Won’t see anyone. Not even Dominic Blackwood.”
“Such a waste,” Alexander murmurs. “Though perhaps it’s for the best. Some people aren’t built for the kind of vision your parents had. Not like you, Luna.”
Before I can answer, a curl of spelled mist unfurls at the edge of the table and our first course arrives, floating in crystalline spheres that pulse with soft light. They hover over mother-of-pearl plates, each one bursting into a slow rain of golden sparks before settling in place. The morsels within defy gravity, drops of sauce spiraling upward.
“Blood-enhanced amuse-bouche,” Alexander explains, leaning close enough that I catch the warmth of his cologne; smoke and cedar. “The chef infuses each element with essence, so the flavors evolve as you eat them. Like magic itself, always revealing new depths to those patient enough to discover them.”
I lift my spoon, caught between the dancing lights and the intensity of his gaze. The first taste explodes on my tongue. Sweet then sharp, then something deeper that makes me moan in appreciation. “It’s extraordinary,” I breathe, eyes fluttering shut to savor it.
When I open them, Alexander is watching me with a smile. “The way your eyes light up when you discover something new . . .” His voice trails off, but his attention never wavers. “You remind me of Cedric in those moments. That same unfiltered brilliance.”
The name punches the air from my lungs. My father’s ghost still lingers in every room that matters. But this is my opening. “I’ve been studying their research notes,” I say, setting down my spoon. “The theoretical frameworks they developed, their approaches to blood magic—”
“Luna, your parents never trained you in their work.”
“But I understand it,” I insist. “I’ve spent years learning and watching. Just because they didn’t see my potential, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“And what potential would that be?” He traces the rim of his wineglass, the gesture almost hypnotic. “What exactly do you think you could offer, little Ellis?”
“To continue what they started. Whatever they were doing for you. For the Founding Families.” Twenty-two years of being the quiet one, the one no one chose, burst out all at once. “I know everyone assumed Aria would carry their legacy, but she’s fading, Alexander. She’s not ready, but I am. I’vealwaysbeen ready. I just needed—” I catch myself, heart racing.
He leans in, voice dropping to a hush that vibrates along my spine. “Needed what?”
“To be chosen.” The word hangs between us, fragile and burning. “Not pitied or tolerated. I want to matter. To leave a mark so deep they have no choice but to remember me.”
His expression doesn’t change but the air does, a subtle current shifting as though the room itself has begun to listen.
