Of course. A sane person wouldn't want to talk to someone without looking them in the eye.
With shaky hands, Ember removed her cape, keeping her head bowed.
Duke Dallas abruptly brought his fingers to her chin, tilting her head up and forcing her to look at him—just like the other night.
But this time, it wasn't too dark for the Duke to miss her scar. It was a perfect glimpse. If he wanted to react the way Ember expected—with disgust or pity—he would have.
He didn't. Instead, he stared at her as though he was lost in her gaze.
No.
And, for the life of her, she couldn't understand why he would bring his thumb to caress her scar like he was doing at the moment.
Ember swallowed hard. He traced the line of her scar, his eyes dropping to her lips with utter desire. Ember trembled down to her toes as his thumb brushed the scar tissue near her lower lip.
Oh, this was a scandal!
Should anyone see them in such a state, it would be a punishable sin for a bachelor and a spinster.
But he was the Duke. He did the punishing.
Then, the distraction she didn't know she desperately needed finally came.
Fireworks erupted, and they were both forced to divert their attention to the crackling beauty in the air.
"Wow," Ember whispered to herself, watching the sky burst into a variety of colors.
The last time she had seen fireworks was at the royal birthday party of the deceased Duke, Dallas's father. There were never fireworks at parties like this—only royal celebrations.
She wondered what could have possibly changed.
The Duke turned to her, looking down at her face while she admired the lights.
"I thought you might like it."
She froze.
No way.
Ember turned to him, her lips parted in shock. "Did you…?"
No, there was no way he could have done that. There was no way he ordered the fireworks just to show her.
"I actually called you out here to watch them with me. It is a better view here. Or do you not like it?"
Ember nodded, failing to form sentences in her head.
"Although, I have a place to catch a better glimpse. It is quite close to the sky, so you can picture it well."
"Where is that, Your Grace?" Ember managed to ask, smiling through quivering lips, trying to converse as though they were merely courting.
The Duke turned away from the fireworks, staring at her lustfully.
"My bedroom."
There was a deep, dead silence around them, only the noise of the crackling fireworks filled their ears. Ember was sure the Duke could hear the thrum of her heartbeat over the noise of the explosions above.
She didn't know why there was so much intimacy in a simple request to go to his bedroom. But there was. And he knew it. With the way he gazed at her.
"We could watch the fireworks, then I would show you around."
Ember remained mute.
"I have chocolate biscuits that just arrived from the city. You can get any milkshake flavor of your choice. And my sheets... they are quite outstanding. You'd love them."
Ember swallowed.
"I—I…"
The Duke watched her, anticipating her response.
"I'm afraid I have to hurry back home, Your Grace. Have a wonderful night!"
Ember blurted the words out, hurrying out of the garden. Before she knew it, she was out of the Duke's sight.
And so she returned home, in regret.
The house, still and dark, swallowed Ember's slender figure as she slipped into the gloomy building.
Ember figured her father had retired to bed and planned to do the same. But the minute she placed her hand on the handle of her door, she heard a whooshing sound behind her.
It was a sound foreign to her. It wasn't the wind. It felt as though someone—or something—had swept past her in a rush of air.
Ember gently twisted around, gazing into the shadows for the intruder.
Could it be her father pulling one of his silly pranks?
"Father?"
Ember's low-pitched voice called out, echoing off the rich mahogany walls.
She strolled down the passage leading to her father's bedroom.
"Father?" she called again, stepping closer.
His door was slightly ajar, and light peeked into the passage through a thin line. She pushed the door open, the creaking noise rising like bile in her throat.
She pressed her sweaty palms together as she walked toward her father's sleeping figure.
She knew immediately it was something other than sleep. Her father never laid in such a manner—sitting up in bed to rest. He would rather use the couch beside his desk or lay back on his king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling until his tired eyes drifted close.
Yet, she moved closer, hoping he had simply changed his habits, that she had been too busy preparing for the ball to notice. She desperately hoped he had been too tired to lay down properly.
However, her hope was short-lived.
Ember gripped her father's still shoulder and slowly turned him to face her. When his body fell back into her arms, limp and heavy, Ember choked on a sob.
His lifeless eyes were still open. His face was pale. And his neck had been torn open.
Blood leaked out of the space uncontrollably.
It was a bite.
The devil's bite, as they called it.