Chapter 8: One Table, Two Predators
The dining room wasn't built for two.
The ceiling arched so high it disappeared into shadow. Candles dripped wax along the walls, and a single chandelier threw golden light over a long obsidian table.
And at the very end of it—
Evelyn.
She didn't sit like a duchess.
She didn't sit like a prisoner either.
Back straight. Chin high. Scar exposed.
A challenge made flesh.
Bryant entered in silence.
His eyes found her first. Always her first.
Then the silver tray beside her.
Untouched.
"You're not eating," he said.
"I don't trust your kitchen."
A pause.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched—barely.
"Smart."
He moved to the other end of the table. Sat.
The space between them was ridiculous.
She could barely see his face past the flickering candelabras.
"I assume you invited me here for something other than silence," she said.
He leaned forward slightly.
"I wanted to see if you knew how to behave in public."
"This isn't public," she replied. "It's performance."
His eyes flicked toward her collar.
"You wore it willingly."
"I wore it to survive."
"That's a difference?"
"To someone who's never had to survive? Yes."
That hit somewhere.
He didn't show it.
But the wine in his glass stilled.
"Most women here beg to be close to me," Bryant said, quiet now. "You pull further away the closer I get."
Evelyn held his stare. "Because you're not what I want."
His jaw ticked.
"You don't know what you want."
"I do," she said, rising from her chair.
The heels of her boots echoed down the long hall of the table.
She didn't stop until she stood beside him.
"I want my own name. My own power. And a man who doesn't mistake silence for obedience."
His eyes met hers.
And for the first time…
He looked almost undone.
Just for a flicker.
"I could destroy you," he said.
"You already tried."
Silence.
Only the soft clink of her fingers brushing the edge of his glass. Not to drink.
To test him.
He didn't stop her.
"You act like you don't care," he murmured, voice low. "But you're trembling."
"I'm not afraid."
"Then why are your hands shaking?"
She leaned closer.
So close he could smell the fire from her skin.
"Because for the first time…" she whispered, "I'm not sure I want to stop you."
The room spun a little.
Or maybe it was just him.
Her breath was too close.
His control, too thin.
If she touched him—
The door creaked open.
Callan.
His voice stiff. "Forgive me, but… there's a letter. Urgent. From the Council."
Bryant didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Evelyn stepped back—just slightly. Enough to breathe again.
Enough to leave him burning.
"I guess I'll finish dinner alone," she said softly.
Then turned.
And walked out.
Leaving the Duke alone with the flicker of candlelight, the sting of her words, and the unfamiliar heat clawing under his skin.