The walk to the dining room was a march of silent, vibrating tension.
Damien kept a grip on Aria's elbow that was less about guidance and more about containment. He was composed on the surface—jacket buttoned, tie straightened—but the heat radiating off him was palpable. He was a tightly coiled spring, denied his release by a meddling sister.
"You're walking too fast," Aria whispered, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble to keep up.
"I'm hungry," Damien growled, not slowing down. "And I don't mean for the food."
Two footmen bowed and pushed open the double doors to the Banquet Hall.
The room was a cavern of dark wood, candlelight, and hostility. A long table, set for twenty, stretched down the center. It was populated by the extended Sinclair clan—uncles with gout, aunts with facelifts, and cousins who looked like they were waiting for someone to die so they could inherit a watch.
