Page 30 of Iridescent
I draw in a slow breath and force my fingers to loosen on the glass before it gives under my grip.
Of course. That’s all this is.
A reminder.
That my empty house—my empty body—is something they can pick apart over dinner.
Conversations falter nearby, then resume with forced brightness. My cheeks burn, but my composure holds.
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching it catch the light. “Better an empty house,” I say, lifting my gaze and letting it drift deliberately around the room before settling back on her, “than a full one without manners.”
Someone inhales sharply. The aunt’s smile flickers, uncertainty creepingin, as if she can’t tell whether she has been insulted or entertained.
“Oh, in case you’re confused, Susie,” I add, taking a slow sip of my wine. “That was, indeed, an insult.”
She starts blathering again, but I tune her out, my gaze drifting across the ballroom in search of my husband.
He has finally escaped Guinevere.
Now he stands a few yards away near the bar, speaking with one of Saint Aurelia’s trustees. He looks calmer, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other curled around a lowball glass of scotch. An easy smile curves his mouth, making him look like charm and effortless belonging given human shape.
Despite myself, I smile.
Seeing him like this—composed, steady, briefly untouched by whatever Guinevere said to him earlier—makes the room feel a little less hostile.
He hadn’t been this relaxed when we arrived. Maybe he and his mother reached some temporary ceasefire. Or maybe Xavier is simply better than anyone I know at putting on another mask and making a battlefield look like a room I can breathe in.
Heat creeps up my neck at the memory of my husband’s hands on me, inside me—the way we clawed the tension out of each other in the back seat.
Since then, I’ve moved through the night in a strange, fragile daze. After months of silence and distance and words left unsaid, I was starting to think we were already standing at the end.
But now he feels like mine again.
My husband. My midnight sun.
Xavier laughs at something the man says, and my smile deepens as I watch him.
Dark hair, artfully tousled. A few unruly strands fall across his forehead, softening the sharpness of his face. His golden-brown eyes crease at the corners, dimples cutting into his cheeks when he smiles.
He looks devastating.
And he is mine.
My husband glances over, as if he can feel me watching.
His eyes sweep down the length of my dress, over my bare shoulders andthe curve of my waist, then drift back up to the side of my throat.
He lingers there. I’m sure he can see straight through the concealer I dabbed over the marks he left less than an hour ago.
Heat sharpens in his gaze. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip, watching me over the rim with the kind of lazy hunger that makes my skin remember his hands.
Suddenly, I feel naked, my nipples tightening beneath the thin fabric of my dress. I shift, letting my hair fall forward to hide the betraying reaction.
Knowing exactly what he is doing to me, Xavier gives me a lazy, wicked wink.
My heart stumbles, warmth spilling across my cheeks.
God, this man will be the end of me.
