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“No.”

His brows lift. “No?”

I shake my head. “It’s your family. Besides, Dama has sent me fourteen messages threatening to stage a rescue if nobody lets him upstairs.”

Amusement flickers across his face as he opens the door for me. “Come on then.”

The elevator ride downstairs feels like descending into another universe, glass walls sliding silently around us while level after level of dark stone, water, and gold light opens beneath the estate.

Every rich person in this house appears to be armed, and the dining room waiting below is bigger than most buildings back in Düren. I almost stop walking, but Ciaran’s hand finds my lower back. “Breathe, mouse.”

“There are armed guards standing beside the wine.”

“That’s normal.”

“For who?”

“For us.”

My feet almost stop again, but Ciaran’s hand slides from my back to the nape of my neck and guides me forward.

“Mom. Rowan.”

Angela’s smile appears, one hand extending toward me. “Come here, sweetheart.”

And for some reason, that is infinitely more terrifying than the armed guards. I hesitate before taking a few careful steps forward. Angela somehow seems to know exactly where I am despite not being able to see me. Her fingertips brush my cheek, then my jaw and temple, tracing my features before falling away again, heat climbing up my neck in their wake.

“Sit down, darling.” One elegant hand gestures toward the table. “And tell me something. Where did you learn to play like that?”

A servant appears beside my chair, but Ciaran shoulders past him before he can touch it, pulling it out himself.

“Thank you. My sister taught me. Then teachers. And practice.”

I lower myself carefully into the chair, not entirely sure whether I’m talking to Angela, the servant, or Ciaran.

Angela hums. “Only musicians ever answer like that.”

Two women sit farther down the table near her, both dressed in dark jewel tones and enough diamonds to make me nervous.

“So this is the musician,” one of them purrs.

“My aunts.” Ciaran leans back in his chair beside me.

The other woman studies me over the rim of her wine glass. “Oh, I like him.”

Ciaran groans. “Don’t encourage them.”

That earns a laugh from both women.

I glance over and find Lucan half sprawled across his chair with Damaris occupying most of his lap. My friend lights up the second he spots me.

“Ro!”

He tries to stand, but Lucan pulls him back with a dark chuckle. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

“I wanted—” Damaris flushes crimson, and more laughter follows.

“I know what you wanted.” Leaning in, Lucan leaves a trail of kisses down Damaris’s throat. “And it’s not going to happen.”