Page 5

He wouldn’t call her conventionally attractive—though he wouldn’t call her plain either. Her features were not delicate but bold. Arresting.

Her brows were thick and expressive, more brushstroke than pencil line. Her dark eyes glinted like diamonds beneath long, raven lashes. Her full, bow-shaped lips held the rich color of ripe plum. Her face, golden with sun and striking, defied simple description.

And yet, her demeanor was the opposite of striking. She was poised. Measured. Almost meek.

What struck Gideon most was not her ostentation but her contradiction. She blended into the crowd, and yet, unmistakably, she stood apart. He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t look away.

She moved with grace, pausing beside Hexley to offer polite smiles and demure nods as they wove through the crowd.

Something warm unfurled in Gideon’s chest.

A tug. A pull toward her. A strange, almost inexplicable urge to approach her. To speak to her. As if they were not strangers at all—but long-lost friends.

He did not recognize her; of that, he was certain. But perhaps his soul did.

What a silly thought.

A ridiculous and poetic thought.

He scoffed under his breath.

He was no romantic. His instincts weren’t trained to recognize romantic potential—they were honed to detect danger.

And perhaps that’s what this was: a sense that something was off, out of place.

A warning.

Danger.

Then she turned, as if she’d felt the weight of his gaze, and their eyes met.

She looked directly at him, with no indication of surprise on her face, as if she had been expecting to find him staring at her.

And she stared back.

A long, unhurried, curious gaze.

Then, slowly, her lashes dipped. Eyes lowered. Modest. Demure.

Practiced.

Yes, that was it. That’s what unsettled him. Her every movement was deliberate. Precise. Calculated.

Or was he imagining it? Searching for reasons to explain the odd prickle at the back of his neck?

Gideon tore his gaze away.

He exhaled sharply, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath. His cheeks warmed, and his pulse pounded.

What was this strange feeling that assailed him?

It felt oddly like panic.

He whirled around, preparing to leave, but his legs felt shaky.

He never panicked.

Not during his time as a member of a dangerous secret society, not as a soldier during a war, not as a hand of the Crown.