“There will be many forks.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?”
The maître d’ appeared, all smooth competence and professional discretion. “Mr. Castellan. Welcome back. Your table is ready.”
They were led through the main dining room—white tablecloths, crystal glassware, a string quartet playing softly in the corner. Every table occupied by supernatural elite in designer clothes and expressions of cultivated boredom. Leo recognized a vampire elder, three pack alphas from the northern territories, and at least one fae diplomat whose presence probably violated several treaties.
Their table was in a private alcove. Secluded. Intimate.
Junie slid into her seat, picked up the menu, and stared at it with the expression of someone attempting to translate ancient Sumerian.
“I can’t pronounce any of this,” she whispered. “Is this French? This looks like French, but half these words aren’t real.”
“It’s a specialized culinary dialect. The chef trained in?—”
“Leo.” She lowered the menu to glare at him over the top. “I don’t care where the chef trained. I care that I’m about to accidentally order sweetbreads because I thought it meant bread that’s sweet.”
“Sweetbreads are thymus glands.”
“See? That’s what I need.” She set the menu down. “Just… order for both of us. Pick things that don’t involve organs.”
The sommelier arrived before Leo could respond, launching into an elaborate description of the evening’s wine pairings. Tannins and terroir and particular notes of blackcurrant from a 1987 reserve that had been aged in oak barrels blessed by a coven in Burgundy.
Junie’s expression glazed over.
Leo recognized that look. The polite mask of someone desperately pretending to understand a language they’d never learned. He’d seen it on new pride members forced to attend political functions. On employees from non-supernatural backgrounds thrust into the paranormal business world.
He’d never expected to see it on Junie Reed, who had opinions about everything and wasn’t afraid to share them.
“We’ll take your recommendation,” he interrupted. “And water for both of us.”
The sommelier’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. Water. At La Côte d’Azur. Practically sacrilege.
But he recovered quickly. “Of course, sir.”
When he retreated, Junie let out a long breath. “Thank you. I was about thirty seconds from being allergic to grapes.”
“You don’t have a grape allergy.”
“He doesn’t know that.” She reached for the bread basket, then hesitated. “Am I allowed to touch this? Is bread an appetizer or a test of self-control?”
“Eat the bread.”
She tore off a piece, chewing with more relief than any bread deserved. Leo watched her—the way she gradually relaxed, the tension draining from her shoulders as she surveyed the room with more curiosity than discomfort now.
“So,” she said, reaching for another piece, “is this your usual Saturday night? Supernatural fine dining with the ancient and wealthy?”
“Not usually, no.”
“But it’s your world. This—” She gestured at the crystal, the string quartet, the effortlessly elegant patrons. “This is what you’re used to.”
It was. He’d built Castellan Ventures into an empire specifically so he would never feel out of place in rooms likethis again. So he could move through wealth and power as if he belonged there, because he did. Because he’d earned it.
“Yes,” he admitted. “This is familiar.”
