FIA
When I reached the dining room, my hands would not stay still. I had tried to lace them neatly in front of me, but they kept twisting together, restless, betraying me.
The candles along the long oak table flickered, their light throwing gold over polished silver and glass. Everything gleamed. Everything seemed too fine, too proper for someone like me. I should have felt small, out of place, but mostly I just felt like I was standing in the center of a storm waiting to begin.
The moment I heard his steps, my stomach knotted. I knew it was him before I even turned. That particular rhythm, deliberate and confident, always carried a kind of masculine authority.
Cian.
I tried not to look. But I did.
