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I roll my eyes. Apparently Damaris found somebody capable of matching his level of drama.
“Look at you.” His smile softens. “Standing upright. Walking. Being medically irresponsible. I'm so proud.”
“Hi, Dama.”
“I'm really happy you're okay.”
He’s not the only one. Because something in my chest eases at the sight of my best friend tucked against Lucan’s side, his arm draped around Damaris’s waist as though it belongs there.
Damaris catches me looking and rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Lucan glances between us. “Thinking what?”
Damaris stuffs a piece of bread into his mouth before pointing at Lucan. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Outside on the terrace, Rafe is already stripping off his shirt beside the glowing pool.
Watching from the table, Rafe’s mother sighs. “You’re not actually getting in there, are you?”
Rafe points two fingers at her, then dives backward into the pool anyway, a massive splash echoing across the terrace.
She shakes her head. “There he is. I was starting to worry he was behaving himself.”
The blond man I vaguely recognize as Marius is staring down at his multi-slate, pale hair falling across his forehead and framing clear blue eyes that belong on a holo advertisement.
Right now, he looks one text message away from a breakdown.
“You’re sexting at dinner?” Lucan asks.
“Mind your business.”
“You’re smiling at the screen.”
“Didn’t know your face could do that, little bro,” Rafe calls from the pool.
Marius finally looks up. “Didn’t know yours could form complete sentences.”
“Ouch. Brotherly love. So cute.” Ciaran drags his chair a little closer to mine, and I become painfully aware that everyone appears to be watching me.
One of Angela’s sisters smiles. “Christian’s still complaining, by the way.”
Angela takes a sip of wine. “He’ll survive.”
“You banned him from dinner.”
“I wanted to meet Rowan properly.”
Servants move around the table, filling glasses and setting down baskets of warm bread while conversation drifts between the others.
Outside, Rafe strolls back in from the terrace dripping wet, a servant handing him a towel before he wraps it around his waist without breaking stride. Water still runs over broad shoulders and dark tattoos as he drops into his chair like appearing half naked at dinner is completely normal.
Then Angela turns toward me, taking my hands between hers and tracing her fingertips over my knuckles before speaking. “Ciaran says your hands are recovering.”
“A little,” I admit.
