The waltz curled through the Crystal Pavilion like smoke—slow, sinuous, obscene in its intimacy. Bodies pressed too close under the amber glow of the chandeliers; silk whispered against silk; breath hitched in throats already raw from suppressed moans.
The crimson wine had done its work thoroughly. Every sip had carried Aiden's incubus blood deeper into veins, turning political ambition into background noise and rational thought into background static.
Women laughed too loudly at nothing, touched each other's waists and wrists with lingering intent, eyes constantly flicking upward toward the balcony where Aiden stood with Sheela pressed against his side.
Most drifted toward him unconsciously, like moths circling a flame they could not yet name.
