Luciano returned to the party without a word.
The hall swallowed him again the music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. He took his place with the same composure he always wore, his presence steady enough to reassure the guests that the interruption had meant nothing. Orders were given. Wine was poured. The night resumed its rhythm.
Upstairs, Belle waited.
At first, she remained seated on the edge of the bed, her back straight, her senses alert. She listened for footsteps that did not come. Minutes stretched. The room stayed still. The adrenaline that had carried her through the confrontation drained away, leaving behind a heavy, unfamiliar exhaustion.
She lay down without meaning to.
The bed was warm. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—Luciano. Her eyes closed despite herself. Sleep claimed her before she could fight it.
She woke to noise.
