Daemon was back from exile, and the news drifted to his niece in furtive whispers, her maids speaking of him with the kind of quiet awe one uses for something dangerous. He’d always paid her special attention, his touch lingering just a bit too long, his gaze always a little too intense. It thrilled her more than she’d like to admit. Maybe that was why she’d chosen her dress tonight, knowing it would draw his eyes, knowing he’d be watching her.

She’d come to savor this silent game they played, the way his eyes would darken when she moved, the way his fingertips traced his wine glass with that slow, suggestive drag. At night, she found herself imagining his thoughts slipping to her, even as he sought other pleasures. Tonight, she told herself, would be like any other; one more night of knowing glances and silent tension. But as she entered the hall and walked to the high table, she felt his gaze on her, possessive and intense, lingering in a way that sent a shiver through her.