Page 112

Oh, indeed. The man looks like a wet dream, all dark and smooth and forbidden.

I need to move. Come on, walk.

But then one of his cousins barks out a comment and the whole group bursts out laughing and I can’t tear my gaze away. They all look like they belong here. Beside him stand an older man and woman, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re his parents.

Then Ciaran’s gaze lifts my way, and for a moment we just stare at each other. His mouth curls slowly into a smirk, and all I can think about is those lips wrapped around my cock last night.

The memory nearly makes me drop my glass.

If he’s angry that I slipped out of his bed before sunrise, he doesn’t show it. His gaze drags slowly over the suit he sent me before the smirk deepens, like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Here. Drink. You can thank me later.” Damaris slaps a glass of water into my hand and drags me to where he’s managed to find two seats by the stage. “You were staring. Like, badly.”

“Oh.” I plop into the chair, light-headed and nervous as hell, giddy because Ciaran is so close while some reckless part of me still wants him even closer.

I wonder if he’s still looking at me. If he also thinks of what he did last night.

“Imperial Nicol.” Halvern joins the Imperial at the center of the stage just as the applause finally begins to settle, inclining his head with practiced respect. “Thank you again for honoring the Virel family and Caervast with your presence tonight. We’re deeply grateful for your continued support of both the academy and the arts here on Sero.”

The Imperial gives a slow nod while guests and servers continue drifting through the hall with trays of champagne and food held carefully aloft.

Halvern taps against the microphone, smiling out across the crowd. “Now then. While everyone enjoys the evening, it’s my pleasure to introduce one of Caervast’s most promising musicians. Rowan Ashford will perform for us later this evening following our hostess, Mrs. Angela Virel, whose performance was specifically requested by Imperial Milanov Zephyranth.”

A ripple moves through the crowd.

Near the front, a tall man with platinum hair lifts his champagne glass with an easy smile, amethyst eyes catching the light. Beside him stands a younger man who looks so much like him it’s almost unsettling. Same striking features. Same impossible coloring. Just younger.

At the front of the hall, a woman rises from her seat.

The hall quiets.

Ciaran steps forward the second she reaches the edge of the stage, offering his arm as she moves beside him with a slim black cane tapping lightly against the stone floor.

“Saints,” Damaris mutters beside me, sounding a little overwhelmed now. “Nobody warned me this was the kind of event.”

I barely hear him. I can’t stop staring at Ciaran’s hands. At those long ink-stained fingers resting against his mother’s back so carefully, so possessively. And a horrible aching thought slips through me anyway.

What would it feel like to have him guide me like that? To have those hands settle against my back and know exactly where to put me.

Safe.

The thought lands so hard I have to look away.

Ciaran guides his mother toward the Noctis. Once she’s standing in position, he lifts his champagne glass toward the crowd, grinning when people around the hall raise theirs in return.

“To yet another event here at Caervast,” he drawls, his gaze sliding to meet mine. “May this one be full of surprises.”

Then the music starts, and the sound steals the breath from my lungs. I’ve never heard anyone play like this before. It’s a sad, aching melody that makes something inside me twist painfully.

My vision fractures. As I stare at the stage, a horrible feeling crawls up the back of my neck. It’s a prickling tension that spreads across my skin hard enough that my medical band buzzes beneath my sleeve.

Finally dragging away my gaze, I search the crowd, but nothing seems out of place.

Yet everything is out of place.

There.

By the entrance, I spot a man standing near the far archway beside another guest. He’s deep in conversation, but his eyes are fixed directly on me. Even from here, the black gloves stand out against the stem of his champagne glass.