“Dom—”
“I said it’s nothing.” His voice carries an edge of warning. “Let it go.”
I reach beneath the table, fingers brushing against his, but he pulls away before I can hold on. The slight stiffness in his left arm becomes more pronounced as someone passes too close behind him.
“You wore that dress to kill me, didn’t you?” His smile returns, practiced and perfect. “How’s a man supposed to discuss politics when you look like that?”
Deflection. The oldest play in his book. But I see through it now, see the careful distance he maintains between his back and the chair as if contact might hurt.
“You’re bleeding,” I murmur. “I saw it. Under your collar.”
He doesn’t blink. “I bled worse the day they handed me your name.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’m offering,” he says. “Drink your wine, love. We’ll talk later.”
The moment shatters, but the image of his bruises burns behind my eyes. Someone has marked him. Made him bleed. And I have a sinking, ugly certainty about exactly who wields that kind of power over a Blackwood heir.
The sharp tinkle of Octavia’s bangles reaches me before I see her, a warning bell dressed in gold. Dom’s fingers flex around his glass, a fraction too tight, and that’s all the confirmation I need. The tension from our earlier almost-fight crackles between us, and I know we’re about to give Kian exactly what he lives for: weakness to exploit.
The Blackwood trinity approaches, their unity a perfectly choreographed nightmare.
Octavia leads, gliding through the lounge as if gravity itself has learned deference. Raven-black hair coils into a lacquered crown, each wave immaculate, every line a study in precision. Her features are sculpted with surgical care: cheekbones honed to glass-cutting edges, almond eyes rimmed in molten bronze, lips lacquered in venomous plum. She moves with the practiced detachment of a woman who has turned evisceration into an art, every smile sharpened for the kill. The gown that sheathes her glimmers in deep red silk, and with each measured step, she leaves behind a vapor of perfume—orchid smoke laced with something keener, the scent of secrets too dangerous to bottle.
Kian follows at a slower pace, loose-limbed grace wrapped in calculated ease. He shares his son’s build—tall, broad-shouldered, every line honed by luxury and violence—yet where Dom carriesthe coiled threat of a weapon still deciding when to strike, Kian is the aftermath. Blood drawn, blade wiped clean. Copper-brown hair falls in a sweep just longer than Dom’s, styled with careless polish that frames the devastating symmetry of his face. An open collar lends him an air of effortless seduction, every detail curated into allure. His infamous gray eyes drift across the lounge with leisurely dissection, cataloguing weaknesses, weighing which ruin will taste the most satisfying.
He doesn’t look dangerous at first glance. He looks expensive, composed, immaculate. The danger is in how easy it would be to drink whatever he offers, even when you know it will kill you.
And then there’s Margaux.
Obsidian silk clings to her frame, the gown’s slit flashing toned legs and a crimson stiletto with every languid step. Her beauty is all sharpened edges and calculated polish: catlike eyes rimmed in ink, lips glossy black, skin luminous with a golden undertone that gleams under the lights. Where Octavia rules as monarchy in a murder dress, Margaux crackles with high-voltage chaos wrapped in couture. The youngest, but never dismissed, she radiates that impossible blend of rich-girl apathy and latent threat.
Her eyes find mine and pin me like a bug on velvet. Disdain curves her mouth, but behind it, I see something else. Hunger. Not for me, but for power and blood.
“Mother. Father.” Dom’s voice is polished ice. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Darling.” Octavia bends to kiss his cheek, her ruby bracelet catching the light. “When we heard you were dining with Aria, we couldn’t possibly resist. It’s been far too long since we’ve had the pleasure of her company.”
Magic ripples through the table at her gesture, marble and crystal expanding to accommodate them. I fight the urge to bolt as Octavia’s arms open for an embrace I can’t refuse.
“Octavia,” I say smoothly, matching her theatrics with a veneer of warmth. “Still the most dangerous woman within a ten-mile radius. You look stunning.”
She beams, the picture of counterfeit fondness. “We’ve missed you at brunch.”
“Oh, spare us the performance,” Margaux drawls, dropping into her chair. “We all know you’re here to make sure Dom’s little obsession with the Ellis girl turns into something useful for your dynasty.”
“Margaux.” Octavia’s perfectly painted lips tighten.
“What?” She shrugs. “I’m only saying what everyone else is too polite to admit. Personally, I think it’s delicious. Nothing says ‘fuck you’ to carefully cultivated bloodlines quite like choosing the daughter of dead scientists over whatever vapid socialite of the week.” Margaux turns to me, dark eyes glittering. “You should’ve seen Mother’s shortlist. All vetted for optimal genetics and political gain. Though I suppose having your parents’ research tips the scales in your favor, doesn’t it?”
Dom goes rigid beside me, but before either of us can speak, Kian sinks into the chair at my side. The scent of blood orange and polished steel clings to him, undercut with sweat, smoke, and pain.
“You know,” he says lightly, “last time I dined here, the chef undercooked my halibut. Poor bastard lost three fingers.” He glances toward the wine server, who freezes mid-pour. “Oh, don’t stiffen up now, sweet thing. He’s still got seven left. Plating’s much more efficient that way.”
The wine trembles at the bottle’s lip, a single drop threatening to stain the pristine linen.
Kian’s fingers curl around his glass with cultivated poise. “This one,” he says, tilting it toward me, “was aged in dragonbone barrels. Worth more than that necklace around your neck.” He leans in, voice low. “But I’m sure your little luxuries are well-covered. Right, son?”
