The voice of the abyss had barely dissolved into the night when another, far more substantial, fractured the silence of the terrace. "Aria?"
Warm. Solid, and indisputably real.
Ilaria froze, her pulse a frantic drum against her ribs. Her gaze snapped to her wrist, where a thin, jagged line of crimson welled against her pale skin.
The bead of blood caught the lantern light, gleaming like a rogue garnet, before she frantically smoothed the silk of her glove back over the wound. The fabric snagged momentarily against the dampness, a stinging reminder of the shadow's touch, before sliding into place to hide the evidence.
When she turned, Levan was framed in the open doorway. He held the glass panel ajar, the distant, muffled strains of a waltz spilling out behind him like an afterthought. The interior gold of the ballroom silhouetted his broad shoulders, casting his features into sharp, predatory relief against the winter dark.
