Sabine kept her breathing even and read as fast as she could.
Then Lord Solhain descended from the gallery carrying a wine decanter.
The room noticed immediately.
He moved from bride to bride with courtly ease, pouring for some, pausing too long at others. When he reached Sabine, hissmile held exactly the amount of insult he believed decorum could contain.
“Lady Sabine. May I?”
He tipped the decanter slightly.
Her marked hand went hot.
“No,” she said.
Softly. Clearly. No apology.
Solhain’s eyes flicked to her wrist. “A refusal.”
“A preference.”
A pause.
Then he smiled and moved on.
Sabine kept her expression blank, but her pulse beat visibly at her throat. She had no idea whether she had just done something wise or catastrophic.
And then Lucien rose.
The room quieted so quickly it felt like a lung emptying.
He came down from the dais carrying a single crystal cup.
Not for the table. For her.
By the time he reached her chair, every eye in the hall was fixed on them.
“Lady Sabine,” he said.
His voice was formal. Level. Controlled. It only made the danger worse.
He held out the cup.
She looked up at him and saw what nobody else in the room could possibly read correctly. The restraint in his jaw. The careful stillness in his hand. The fact that this was not impulse now. This was choice. Deliberate. Public. Reckless in exactly the way he despised in himself.
Sabine reached for the cup.
Their fingers touched.
The mark answered violently.
Heat shot up her arm and straight down through her body so fast she almost inhaled sharply in front of the entire court. Her stomach tightened. Her thighs did. Everything in her went suddenly, helplessly alert.
Lucien felt it too.
His eyes darkened. His hand closed fractionally over hers before he let go.
The room watched.
