Layla lowered her lashes, studying the crimson swirl of wine in her glass as though it held answers. The floating lights above caught the liquid, turning it into something rich and dangerous — like blood dressed in silk.
But she wasn't seeing the wine. She was replaying the evening.
She had seen it.
The way Liam's voice softened when he offered a toast to Lara. The admiration in his eyes was unguarded and unmistakable.
She had heard it.
The pride in Logan's voice when he declared, "I'm proud to be your brother."
Brother!
Not godbrother. Not some polite title, but Brother.
Then there was Ares. She had caught that look too — the way his obsidian gaze lingered on Lara's face, darkening with something possessive, something hungry.
It wasn't gratitude. It was interest.
And her father — disciplined, distant Leonard Norse — had addressed Lara as daughter with indulgence woven into his tone.
Daughter.
Layla's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
And her mother.
