The main hall of The Golden Swan was a sea of bodies, a thick, pressing fog of expensive perfume, sweat and spilled wine. The music was a thrumming pulse, loud enough to make the floor vibrate. On the stage, a dozen dancers moved in a swirl of bright, revealing silks, their bodies catching the light.
High above the chaos, in the private room, Derek stood on the private balcony, a heavy, unopened bottle of wine in his hand. He was not drinking. He was watching. His face, in the shadows, was not the lazy, indulgent mask of the "skiver." It was the cold, hard, and patient face of the Grand Duke. He was waiting.
A soft knock came from the door behind him. He didn't turn. "Enter."
Ian stepped into the room, his uniform immaculate, his face a mask of grim duty. He bowed.
"Your Grace."
"Report," Derek said, his voice a low, flat command, his gaze still fixed on the dancers below.
