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I sat in a velvet armchair, watching the sun bake the garden outside.
"Why the long face?" Cyrus asked, pausing at the door. He was dressed for another gala, his jacket draped over his arm.
"The sun is too bright, Cyrus. I think the flowers are dying."
He walked over and forced my chin up.
When he looked at you like that—with those deep, dark eyes—anyone would believe they were the center of his universe.
"Wait for me," he said, kissing me briefly before heading out.
I watched from the window as a young woman in a white dress ran to him in the driveway.
He ruffled her hair, and they disappeared into the car together.
Since the Captain’s death, Cyrus had purged his ranks. I was cut off from the agency.
I waited for him until dawn, curled up on the sofa.
When he returned, smelling of cold air and expensive perfume, he stopped in the foyer.
"Why aren't you in bed?"
"Waiting for you."
He paused, then pulled me into a cold embrace.
"The gala ran late, and then there were issues at the docks. I wasn't... I wasn't with her all night."
It was the first time Cyrus Thorne had ever offered an explanation.
