Page 96 of Fallen Nocturne

It is molded so closely around the band that I almost mistake it for part of the weave. I slip the protected ring from the display and cradle it in my palm. It is nearly weightless, and the glass has preserved the texture and color of the rattan beneath it. My thumb follows the braided pattern through the transparent covering.

A strange ache opens behind my ribs. For a moment, I feel like I’m going to cry, and I don’t know why.

I take this too.

The family ring goes into the fold of my dress. I slide the protected rattan ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, as though it was made for my hand.

The tug inside my chest sharpens into something that almost hurts before fading again.

Two rings. Two stolen things tonight. I am becoming a habit.

I turn to leave, and the masked man is standing in the doorway.

He does not move.

His shoulders nearly fill the frame. His eyes stare through the openings of his mask, fixed upon my hands. Upon the empty glass case I am still holding. Upon the finger where the rattan ring now rests.

“Put them back.”

There is no warmth in his voice. He does not tease me or call me little fawn. There is no almost-smile at the corner of his mouth. Only three words, flat and serious enough to make the room feel colder.

I set the glass case down on the desk. “The family ring is mine.”

“Put. Them. Back.”

“No.” My chin lifts.

I refuse to yield. “The Wiolant ring belongs to my family. I don’t know how you got it, but it’s mine and I’m keeping it.”

His jaw tightens. I can see the muscle flex beneath the mask. “And the other?”

I curl my fingers, feeling the rattan ring warm against my skin. “It’s pretty.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Something raw and exposed that vanishes so quickly I almost miss it. Pain or grief, perhaps. It is the ghost of something so old and carefully guarded that even this dream cannot hold it for more than a heartbeat.

“That ring is all I have,” he says. His voice is different now, lower and tightly controlled, as though every word costs him something. “Please give it back.”

Please?

He has never begged me for anything.

A spark of wicked delight moves through me. Perhaps this will be fun after all.

“No,” I say, with all the maturity of a spoiled child.

His hands remain at his sides, but his fingers curl inward. Not quite fists, though close. Tension runs through him like a wire pulled taut. He is trying very hard to remain patient, and some reckless part of me enjoys making it difficult.

“It’s my family ring,” I say again, holding up the band so it catches the light. “This one, at least, you can’t argue. It has my family’s name inscribed inside. It belongs to me and my future husband.”

For one unguarded moment, he looks as though my words have struck somewhere deep.

His eyes close behind the mask. Only for a second. When they open again, the raw emotion is gone, replaced by resolve.

“Give them back, Rhianelle. Both of them. Now.” His voice lowers. “Do not make me chase you.”

His words send a strange flutter through my chest.

I bolt.