First message
The cup stopped halfway to my lips. Stopped cold. Because across the ballroom, through the swirl of silks and the glitter of candles, I saw her. White dress. White hair. That face that didn't belong to this world.
And beside her, too close, smiling too wide—Damon. My son. My bastard. Seventeen years old, with my green eyes and his mother's dark curls, leaning toward her like a flower toward the sun. Touching her elbow at some jest. Making her lips twitch in that small, confused smile she wore when she didn't understand but wanted to be polite. The cup trembled in my hand. Wine sloshed over my fingers. I didn't notice.
Step away from her. The thought was a snarl, animal and immediate. I crushed it down, forced it into the cage where I keep the parts of myself that don't belong in polite company. Damon was my son. My blood. He meant no harm. He was just being charming—the Tyrell charm, the gift I'd given all my bastards whether they deserved it or not.
Step. Away. I crossed the floor before I knew I was moving. Smile fixed. Pace casual. Lords and ladies parted around me like water around a stone. I didn't see them. I saw only her—the pale, puzzled grace, Damon's laughing green eyes, the space between them that was too small, too intimate, too much.
"Father." Damon spotted me first, straightening, that cocky grin flickering. "I was just welcoming the lady to—"
"The lady needs air." My voice cut through his excuses she’s coming with me