I hadn’t noticed. How had I not noticed? The Blackwood seats beside Alexander sit conspicuously empty. An absence that should’ve screamed. Dom’s fingers still, his expression shuttering so fast only I catch it. Even Vivienne’s polished smile flickers with interest.
“Business demands, I’m afraid,” Dom replies smoothly. “Though speaking of enduring presences, Dr. Vale, your latest serum seems to have the whole city buzzing.”
Evangeline preens, not a wrinkle betraying her hundred and seventy years. “When your family has devoted centuries to the illusion of permanence, results tend to follow.” Her fingers skim her flawless jaw, a performance of modesty so practiced it borders on religious ritual. “We can’t halt time entirely, but we can ensure it doesn’t leave a mark.”
The Blackwood absence is buried in seconds, but there’s a story there, and Alexander’s glance toward Dom is far too calculated to be idle. Whatever’s kept Kian and Octavia away tonight, it isn’t routine.
“Rowe,” Dom purrs, as he swirls aged whiskey in his crystal glass. “How’s the latest rescue effort? A venomthorn basilisk with a fractured spine? Or was it the blightwing with membrane rot? I do lose track of your ever-growing strays.”
Rowe’s grip tightens around his glass, the crystal fracturing light into violent rainbows. “Fascinating how closely you monitor my sanctuary, Dominic. Missing the days when you still had potential? Though I suppose managing brothels and liquor licenses is easier than actual achievement.”
“Now, now.” Dom’s smile widens as his thumb traces the curve of my shoulder. “We can’t all spend our days playing nursemaid to magical mutts. Some of us prefer building empires.” His eyes gleam as Rowe’s jaw ticks. “Though I imagine when Daddy’s empire won’t have you, you find other things to adopt.”
“Actually,” Alexander interjects, voice deceptively pleasant, “the sanctuary’s unique expertise will be critical to our newest initiative.”
The color drains from Rowe’s face as his world tilts beneath him, years of hard-earned independence collapsing under his father’s polished smile.
“Dance with me,” Dom murmurs. “The night’s too beautiful to waste on tedious family politics.” His gaze lingers on Rowe. “Besides, love, you look absolutely deadly in that dress.”
“Deadly?” I arch a brow. “Is that what we’re calling this little game of ours tonight?”
“Game? I simply missed watching you play the ice queen. Two months of anticipation has made it rather entertaining.”
His words confirm what I already suspected. That earlier warning wasn’t a cry for help. It was foreplay. And still, despite everything, I want to forgive him. I want to fall back into the fire because I miss him. But then my gaze slides across the table.
Rowe sits rigid, staring into his untouched drink, his shoulders too stiff beneath a suit that fits too well. Alexander’s words echo between us, the sanctuary now folded into the regime he fought so hard to escape. And Rowe . . . he just took the blow in silence. Let it land without protest.
It hits something soft and aching inside me. Dom buries grief beneath seduction. Rowe doesn’t even look at me now. And maybe it’s the bleeding part of me that hasn’t fully calloused over, but I suddenly want to hurt Dom just a little the way he’s hurt me. And I want to pull Rowe out of his spiral even if it’s only for a moment.
I catch Dom’s wandering hand, removing it with precise deliberation. His eyes darken dangerously with anticipation. I rise, the silk of my dress whispering against marble as I walk towards the other end of the table. Through the mirrored reflection, I catch Rowe’s eyes, though he feigns interest in the contents of his glass. The top button of his shirt has come undone, revealing a sliver of tattooed lines that vanish beneath the crisp fabric.
“Dance with me?” I ask softly, offering him my hand.
His eyes widen for a heartbeat. Then, understanding dawns, dark and knowing. Even after everything, he still looks at me like I’m worth the inevitable burn.
He stands, candlelight catching in his dark blond hair as he takes my hand.
“Always,” he says.
Dom’s laugh follows us to the dance floor. “Well played, love,” he calls after me. “Though you might want to remember I taught you everything you know.”
My skin prickles as Rowe leads me away. The perfect move in this delicious game of chess. But as our hands find each other, the ache in my chest whispers that some pieces shouldn’t be sacrificed so easily. Not even for the win.
The music shifts, asubtle recalibration of rhythm, and moonblossom petals drift from the chandeliers, their glow dissolving into glittering dust before reaching the dancers below.
“May I?” Rowe asks, even though I’m the one who demanded this dance.
I dip my chin in silent assent and he draws me into his orbit. There’s nothing tentative in the way he moves. His palm settles over silk, heat bleeding through the fabric.
“Entertaining speech,” he offers small talk that scrapes at my nerves. He speaks as if we’re strangers trading pleasantries, when he’s the one who held me through panic attacks in the dark. When I’m the one who watched him claw freedom out of the ashes of everything we were told we couldn’t be.
“Was it?” The words taste acrid. “I especially enjoyed the part where Alexander used my dead parents as stagecraft.”
Rowe’s fingers tighten fractionally at my waist. “I’m sorry, about my father’s words. The way he spoke about your parents . . . it must have felt like being gutted all over again.”
The sweetness in his voice carves too close to the places I’ve sealed shut. I change the subject.
“Did you know?” I ask. “About the sanctuary?”
