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I seize it. “Do not mention him again.”

“But why—” He cuts himself off when his gaze meets mine. “Fine, fine.”

In an instant, the sound of his laughter returns to vibrate in my ears.

Prelestnyy. Delicious. Far better than violins, pianos, and entire orchestras.

“He is much more, regardless...”

Lucien, who has resumed cutting his food, barely lifts his gaze. “What?”

I slam my fists onto the table. “He is much more, I said!”

The knife trembles slightly between his fingers.

“I believe you, Dorian.”

The door opens with a faint creak. Laurence enters.

“Forgive me, my lord, but it seemed urgent.”

He clutches a package wrapped in thick tan paper, bound with thin twine and secured by a wax seal that glimmers faintly in the lamplight. I wipe my lips with a napkin, then slide my chair back.

“Give it to me, Laurence.”

The package is handed to me with careful hands. I take it, the paper feeling rough between my fingers, and immediately the stamp catches my eye: Viande François, photographe.

I open the package cautiously, sliding off the twine. Lucien does not take his eyes off my movements. I push further back into my chair, taking the photograph in my hands.

I observe every detail. My expression, his. Our proximity. The memory of that moment pervades me, I grip the edges with my fingertips, feeling a sudden heat coursing down my arms, my chest, my back.

No one must ever see this turbid gaze.

Excitement creeps into every fiber of my flesh, I feel my thigh grow heavy, the fabric of my trousers pulling tight.

Èto tol’ko moye.

It is mine alone.

33

Cold Ashes

Evander

The scent of freshly poured coffee fills the room. I cut a piece of bread, just as I am about to spread the butter, the door opens.

“Viscount, Lord Brownell is here to see you.”

I suspend the movement of my knife.

“Nathaniel?”

“No, Lord Richard.”

I swallow, suppressing a slight sigh.

“Show him in.”