Confusion clouds my happiness. I double-check, then triple-check, but the angles don’t lie. Not one of them is looking at me.
They’re looking at Rosamund.
“I knew how badly you wanted it back, Duke,” she says, sliding a hand down Edmund’s arm. “So, I just had to track it down for you.”
Then she tilts her head enough to let her hair spill over one eye and stares at me from across the table. Her smile is like an open wound, her lipstick smeared on her teeth like blood. One hand drifts along the stem of her glass, her nails tapping in a steady rhythm as she texts my Bond.
“Steal from me. And I’ll steal from you.”
She turns back to Edmund. “I found it in a private collector’s stash in the Orange District—a big name with an even bigger ego, but he was hopeless. He had so much junk he didn’t even realize our Hellion was among it.”
That’s all it takes.
The whole table ripples with awe. Jack whistles again. Dickie actually claps.
And me—
I burn.
The heat starts in my hands, a pulse deep in my knuckles. Then it climbs up my arms and slips between my ribs, turning the air in my lungs to smoke that threatens to suffocate my self-control. I can feel the rage coming, building, rising. And this time, I don’t think I can keep it down. I’m going to explode. I’m going to leap across the table, rip that smile off Rosamund’s face, and shove it down her throat.
I shift, ready to kick back my chair and stand.
That’s when I feel a flash of movement, a hand pressing down on my knee. At first, I think it’s Charlotte, trying to step in without making a scene. But as the pressure holds steady, I realize the hand is too big.
My gaze shifts to Edmund. He’s leaning forward, his arm stretched under the table, fingers splayed wide on my knee. His palm burns hot against my skin as his eyes lock onto mine in warning.
I try to shake my knee free, but his grip tightens.
Don’t.
I glare and shove at his hand beneath the table. He resists, matching me inch for inch as I claw at his fingers, desperate to peel them off.
He’s stronger, but I’m angrier.
Edmund knows the Hellion is my gift, yet he’s letting Rosamund take it, covering for her like a treacherous, backstabbing Blue. I thought he was better than this. The revelation settles in my heart like dead weight.
I push back harder against him, all my pain, anger, and humiliation screaming in the fight. At last, his hand drops away, and with it, everything skews sideways.
Edmund moves fast. He grabs the badge, tucks it safely into his vest, then stands and motions to the Pinkies. “Our guests have waited long enough.”
The Pinkie opens the door, and a wave of high-citizens floods in. Overlapping voices crash together in a swell of birthday wishes as they scramble to get close to Edmund and Rosamund.
I stand as a rush of blood floods my head, leaving the room spinning. I try to move, but the booth is jammed, bodies pressing in from all sides. Charlotte and I are pushed first toward the restrooms, then the kitchen. A high-citizen’s sharpened cane catches my dress, tearing the hem. We’re squeezed between silk-clad arms and crystal glasses, pushed past snippets of conversation that flare and then vanish. Someone mentions the Lotus Lounge. Someone else laughs, a shrill, grating sound. I’m tossed, spun, and dragged through a fog of faces and voices that blur together.
Ten minutes pass, maybe more, before Charlotte and I finally spill into the parking lot. Snow falls in thick sheets, the wind cutting across my skin and chilling the sweat on my face. I hurry forward, biting my lip. The cold clears my head, but not the way I want.
Behind us, streaks of blue spill into the street, summoning hovercars,draping themselves in fur, and laughing as if they own the whole world. I force myself to keep walking, carried by anger, dragged down by hurt and humiliation.
Charlotte frowns at me, concerned. She activates her Bond and sends a text to bypass the formal language rules.
“What the hell happened back there, Lore? Where’d you disappear to? And why didn’t you give Edmund a gift? You didn’t give me the only one you had, did you?”
I tug my gloves on sharply, then text,“I did give him a gift, but Rosamund stole it.”
Charlotte stops so suddenly that her sequined velvet shoes skid across the icy snow.“The Hellion was YOURS?”
“Yes.”
