The crystal chandelier above the long mahogany table cast fractured light across the white linen. Raven sat straight-backed in the silk dress Vincent had chosen, the fabric cool against her skin where it clung to her ribs. Silverware clicked. Wine breathed in heavy glasses. The air smelled of roasted garlic, seared meat, and something sharper — calculation.
Lucien Devereaux occupied the head like he owned the oxygen in the room. Silver threaded his dark hair. His eyes, pale and unblinking, never quite landed anywhere for long. To his right sat The Oracle, a slender woman in black, fingers resting lightly on the stem of her glass. She hadn't spoken once. That silence pressed heavier than any question.
Vincent sat beside Raven, one arm draped along the back of her chair. Not touching. Just close enough that the heat of him bled through the space between them.
