“Viktor, you're a pain in my bloody arse. Metaphorically speaking, of course.” He said finally.
Viktor shouted something in Russian that sounded like an insult. The man's mouth curved slightly.
“Just like he said, Viktor came to London with a mission to burn everything down.” He paused, looked at Viktor with something that might have been affection. “Then he met Sebastian and turned into this. Sentimental. Makes speeches at weddings. Cries at his own vows. It's embarrassing. Deep down, he's a giant soft teddy bear.”
“I did not cry!” Viktor protested.
“You absolutely did. I was standing right there.”
The room laughed, warm and genuine. I couldn't look away. Couldn't stop watching the way his shoulders moved when he breathed, the way his hands held the glass, the way his voice wrapped around words like they mattered.
“But watching Viktor choose Sebastian,” he said, voice dropping lower, doing unspeakable things to my insides, “watching him be brave enough for this, for forever, for standingup here in front of everyone and making it real. That's not embarrassing. That's the hardest thing any of us do. Choosing to be happy when the world keeps taking happiness away. Choosing someone when every instinct says it's safer alone.”
He raised his glass. “Viktor did that. And Sebastian was stupid enough to choose him back. So here's to poor life choices and the people brave enough to make them anyway.”
The room erupted. Applause, laughter, chaos. Viktor stood, pulled him into a brief hug. They exchanged words I couldn't hear over the noise.
I stood frozen near the bar, champagne forgotten in my hand.
Something about his voice had crawled inside my chest and refused to leave. Something about the way he moved had sent heat pooling low in my stomach. Something about watching him speak, genuine in a room full of performance, had made me want things I had no business wanting.
I didn't even know his name.
Just that I couldn't stop staring.
I foundmy focus again twenty minutes later. Harrow stood near the eastern wall, champagne in hand, talking to a man in a silver mask. I circled the room, keeping him in my peripheral vision, tracking his movements.
The man from the speech appeared near the bar, talking to someone tall in dark red. He caught me looking once, held my gaze for two seconds longer than necessary, then turned away.
My stomach did something complicated.
I forced myself to focus. Harrow. The investigation. The reason I was here.
Harrow excused himself and moved toward a corridor that led deeper into the palace. Private areas. Off-limits.
I waited thirty seconds, then followed.
The corridor was quieter. Music faded behind thick walls. Portraits lined the walls, dead royals watching. Harrow turned left, stopped at the third door on the right. Knocked twice, paused, knocked once more.
Pattern. Signal.
The door opened. I pressed against the wall, listened.
“You're late.” Male voice, irritated, aristocratic.
“I'm exactly on time. You're impatient.” Harrow's voice, smooth. “Do you have it?”
“Sealed and verified. Three judges.”
I pulled the recording device from my jacket, pressed it against the wall, keeping it in my hand as I listened. The conversation was muffled but audible. Enough for later.
I was backing away when I turned and collided with a wall of muscle.
Not a wall. A man.
The man from the speech.
Up close, he was unfairly attractive. Broad shoulders, trim waist, hands that looked like they could snap bone without effort. Pale eyes tracking me through his mask.
