16

Katherine Harrington The second our eyes met, pain split through my skull. Not the dull manageable ache that had followed me in fragments since waking. This was violent. Sudden. A sharp white burst behind my eyes that made the ballroom tilt. My fingers clenched convulsively around Luciano’s sleeve. Images flashed—not full memories, not coherent scenes, just shattered pieces hurled at me too quickly to catch. A white hospital corridor. A hand gripping my arm hard enough to bruise. A voice shouting through a phone speaker— HELEN NEEDS YOUR KIDNEY! I sucked in a breath. Another flash. Cold flooring beneath bare feet. A hospital gown dragging. Someone pulling me. No—dragging me. Then— HELEN COMES FIRST. The sentence struck like a hammer. I staggered. Luciano’s hand came to my waist instantly, firm enough to keep me upright before my knees could betray me. “Easy,” he murmured. The ballroom sounds rushed back all at once—music, clinking glasses, low murmurs—but they seemed distant now, muffled beneath the roaring in my ears. I kept staring. The man across the room had gone completely still. Dark suit. Hazel eyes. A face that should have been handsome in a forgettable, polished sort of way. Yet the moment I looked at him, every instinct in my body recoiled. Fear. Disgust. A strange nauseating familiarity. He looked as though he had seen a corpse rise from its coffin. Beside him, the pregnant blonde woman had gone ghost-white. Her champagne glass slipped from nerveless fingers. It hit the marble. Shattered. The sound cracked through the ballroom sharply enough to draw every eye. Conversation died in ripples. Heads turned. Music faltered but did not stop. The man took one step forward. Then another. “Katherine?” My name left his mouth like a plea and an accusation all at once. My stomach twisted. I pressed closer unconsciously to Luciano’s side. Luciano did not move away. If anything, his hand at my waist tightened. Possessive. Steady. A wall of heat and authority at my back. The man was pushing through guests now, barely noticing the bodies he bumped aside. The blonde woman hurried after him, one hand clutching her belly, panic written across every sharp line of her face. People parted. Whispers rose. “Oh Goddess…” “That’s Sebastian.” “Isn’t that—” “Wasn’t she missing?” “Didn’t they say she—” I barely heard them. Because he was in front of me now. Close enough that I could see the disbelief shaking through him. Close enough that I could smell expensive cologne and something acrid underneath—stress, maybe, or anger. He looked at me as if trying to confirm I was solid. Alive. Real. Then his eyes darted frantically over me—my hair, my dress, Luciano’s hand at my waist. Confusion sharpened into outrage. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. I blinked. Of all the things I had expected from a man whose voice my body clearly hated, that had not been one of them. No are you alright? No I thought you were dead. Just anger. I stared at him. My head was still pounding. The fractured hospital flashes scraped at the edges of my mind. And yet beneath all that confusion, one clear thought surfaced. I did not like him. Not a little. Not instinctively. Not in any buried forgotten place. Nothing in me reached toward him. Nothing softened. If anything, my skin wanted to crawl backward. “I’m sorry,” I said slowly, hearing how cold my own voice sounded. “Should I know you?” He recoiled as though I had slapped him. “What?” I held his gaze. The ballroom had gone so silent I could hear someone’s bracelet clink against a glass somewhere to the right. “You ran up to me screaming,” I continued politely. “I assumed there was a reason.” “Katherine,” he said, laughing once in disbelief, “this isn’t funny.” The way he said my name— No. Not my name. The way he shaped it, like familiarity was his right, made something ugly twist in my stomach. He took a step closer. Luciano’s hand did not leave my waist. Sebastian noticed. His eyes flicked down. His jaw tightened visibly. “Kat,” he said, lowering his voice as though trying to coax me. “Enough. Come here.” A chill ran over my skin. That nickname felt wrong. Too intimate. Too entitled. I took a half-step back instead, bumping fully against Luciano’s chest. “Please don’t call me that,” I said. Sebastian stared. For the first time, something like panic entered his expression. The pregnant blonde woman finally reached his side. Her eyes filled instantly with theatrical tears. “Katherine!” she cried, reaching out as if we were long-lost sisters. “Thank Goddess you’re alive—we were so worried—” The second she moved toward me, another flash slammed into my skull. A hospital room. White sheets. A silk dress. A soft honeyed voice saying: I just needed Katherine out of the way. I flinched. My breath caught sharply. The woman froze. Luciano looked down at me. “You remember something?” “Not enough,” I whispered, pressing fingers to my temple. “Just enough to know I dislike her on a cellular level.” A muscle in Luciano’s jaw ticked. The blonde woman—Helen, some ugly part of my memory supplied—looked deeply offended. Sebastian looked between us, bewildered and increasingly angry. “Katherine, what the hell is going on?” he snapped. “Why are you standing with him?” I lowered my hand slowly. “With… him?” I repeated. Sebastian gave Luciano a sharp nod, as if referring to a mildly inconvenient coworker instead of a man every person in this room seemed terrified of. “Yes, with him!” Luciano finally spoke. His voice was calm enough to freeze blood. “You may lower your tone.” Sebastian turned. Really looked at Luciano for perhaps the first time since storming over. Recognition hit him visibly. His face drained. Every ounce of entitled husbandly outrage collided with the reality of exactly whose hand was resting on my waist. He swallowed. “Your Majesty,” he said, the title stiff and dela yed, “with respect… this is my wife.” The sentence dropped into the ballroom like a lit match. A collective inhale moved through the surrounding guests. Luciano’s hand remained exactly where it was. He turned his head slightly toward Sebastian. Storm-gray eyes unreadable. “Is she?”