To my extended wing spurs.
And then he steps back.
"Enjoy the gala," he says.
His voice is flat.
Cold.
Absolutely devoid of the smug confidence he walked in with.
He turns and walks away, his enforcers flanking him.
And the crowd exhales.
Conversations resume.
The string quartet continues playing.
The bartender pours another round of drinks.
But I do not move.
I am staring at Tamsin.
At this woman who just defended herself—defendedus—with nothing but words and absolute, unwavering confidence.
"That was extremely reckless," I say quietly.
"I know."
"You just made an enemy of one of the most powerful men in the city."
"I know."
"And you do not care."
"Not even a little bit."
I pull her closer, my hand sliding up her back, my fingers tangling in her hair.
"You are extraordinary," I say.
"I'm pissed off and running on adrenaline."
"Same thing."
She laughs.
It is breathless and shaky and completely genuine.
And then Kael's voice crackles through my earpiece.
"Cyprian. We have movement."
I go still.
"Where?"
