The way the word 'Dad' rolls off his tongue is unsettling. It was a slick, intimate sound that feels utterly wrong. He always called him "Leif" before, but today, the shift is like a needle prick.
My smile falters, the muscles around my mouth suddenly stiff. I glance up at Vega, a silent, warning flare in my eyes, and that's when I notice it. His gaze isn't on Leif at all. It's locked onto Mac.
The air around us thickens, heavy and suddenly still. The light, frivolous scent of champagne and expensive cologne can't mask the acrid tension brewing between the two men.
Vega's jaw is set, a hard line carving his profile, and his eyes are sharp, calculating. It's the kind of look that doesn't belong in this gilded ballroom, amid the soft lights and laughter. It's the kind of look that belongs in the cage before a fierce battle. It was clear Vega is restraining himself.
