The conservatory had been suffocating.
All that polished laughter, the clink of crystal, the way the air seemed to vibrate with conversations that weren't really about what was being said. Evelyn had kept close to her sister, smiling when required, nodding in the right places, speaking only when she had to.
But in the corner of the glass-domed room, she'd felt it—eyes on her. Not the way men usually looked. This was sharper, more deliberate. She hadn't even needed to search for him; her gaze had found his like it was inevitable.
Vale.
Or Damien Kane, if you peeled away the mask.
He didn't belong in the conservatory any more than she did. And when their eyes met, for a moment she wondered if he could see the memory playing in her head—dark water, shouting, the sharp smell of gasoline, the way she'd run when she realized he was still alive.
Now she was outside, the night air cold against her skin.
She told herself she was just walking. Not leaving, not escaping—just taking a moment away from the noise. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she cut down a quieter street, one lined with shuttered storefronts and the occasional pool of yellow light spilling from a streetlamp.
She should have called the driver. She didn't.
Her phone buzzed once in her clutch. She ignored it.
A low whistle broke the quiet. "Hey, sweetheart."
She kept walking.
"Hey. I'm talking to you."
The voice was slurred, thick with the sour tang of alcohol. She heard the uneven footsteps catching up, and before she could react, a hand closed around her wrist.
"Don't touch me," she said sharply, twisting away.
The man was taller than her by a head, his coat rumpled, his eyes red and unfocused. "Just being friendly," he drawled, tightening his grip.
"You're hurting me."
He grinned, and the expression was all wrong—something hungry and mean in it. "You look like trouble, sweetheart. I like trouble."
She jerked her arm, but his fingers only dug in harder.
And then, suddenly, he was gone.
The movement was so fast she almost didn't catch it—Damien stepping out of the shadows, one hand clamping on the man's shoulder, the other driving into his gut with a force that folded him in half. The drunk man gasped, tried to swing, but Damien's fist caught him clean across the jaw.
The sound was sickening.
The man staggered, hit the wall, and slid to the pavement. He groaned, clutching his stomach. Damien crouched beside him, speaking low enough that Evelyn couldn't hear the words, but whatever he said drained the fight out of the man's eyes.
When Damien stood, the other man stayed down.
"You're bleeding," Damien said, his gaze dropping to her wrist. His voice was calm, but there was an edge under it—controlled fury.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." He reached out, taking her hand before she could protest, turning it so the streetlight caught the faint red mark on her skin. His thumb brushed over it once, and her breath caught.
"I said I'm fine."
He looked at her then—really looked, like he was stripping away every layer she'd ever put up. "Come with me."
She hesitated. "Where?"
"Somewhere safer than this."
Before she could argue, a sleek black car slid to the curb. The driver didn't look at her as Damien opened the door. She could have walked away. She knew that.
She got in anyway.
The ride was silent.
She watched the city blur past through the tinted glass, her reflection faint in the window—hair slightly mussed, gown perfect except for the faint scuff on the hem where she'd stepped back from the man. Damien sat beside her, relaxed in posture but radiating something that wasn't relaxation at all.
"You followed me," she said finally.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You left without your driver. You were heading somewhere you didn't want to be seen. That's enough reason."
Her jaw tightened. "You think you can read me?"
"I know I can."
She turned her face back to the glass. "Then you know I don't like being chased."
"I wasn't chasing," he said. "I was making sure no one else got to you first."
Her pulse jumped before she could stop it. She told herself it was annoyance.
The penthouse was exactly what she'd expected—tall glass walls, black leather, chrome, everything in precise order. A place without fingerprints.
He handed her a glass of water. She didn't take it immediately, scanning the room. "You live here alone?"
"Yes."
"It shows."
One of his brows lifted. "Does it?"
"No warmth. No mess. No people."
"People are inefficient."
"You've said that before?"
"Yes." He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. "Why were you walking alone?"
"I needed air."
"There's air outside the gallery."
"I didn't want to be driven home."
"Because?"
She set the glass down. "Because I don't like being told where to go."
"Neither do I," he said softly.
Their eyes held for a beat too long.
"You knew tonight," he said suddenly.
"Knew what?"
"Who I am."
She made her expression blank. "You're Vale."
He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. "Try again."
Her throat tightened.
"The way you looked at me," he went on, "it wasn't the way strangers look. You've seen me before. You remember."
She forced a light tone. "You think too much of yourself."
"No. I think just enough."
Silence stretched between them, heavy enough to feel.
"I should go," she said finally.
"You could," he replied. "The elevator's right there."
She hesitated.
"But if you walk out now," he added, "you won't get another chance to be here. And I think you want to know why I brought you."
Her voice was steady. "Why did you?"
He stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the faint warmth of him beneath the cool air. "Because I wanted to see if you'd be afraid."
She tilted her chin. "And am I?"
His smile was small, knowing. "No. But you should be."
Her breath caught, but she didn't look away. "Then maybe you should be afraid of me too."
"We'll see," he murmured.
The city glittered behind him, but it was his eyes she couldn't look away from—dark, sharp, and promising that whatever came next would be anything but safe.