Lorien
Panic slid into my veins like ice.
The glass shattering. The sound of Isabella’s weeping. The oppressive stares. All of it still echoed in my ears when Kieran suddenly gripped my wrist and pulled me away from the ballroom without warning.
“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, but the unease already curled in my gut like smoke.
“We need to talk,” Kieran said, tone clipped. His eyes didn’t meet mine. “About what you said earlier.”
That should have sounded normal. It should have reassured me.
But something was wrong.
He was too stiff. His grip too tight. Kieran always had a kind way of touching me, guiding me, even when he was annoyed. But now? His hand felt like a shackle, and there was sweat on his forehead that hadn’t been there before. His jaw clenched too often, and he kept glancing over his shoulder—not once, not twice, but three times in the space of ten steps.
“Kieran,” I said, dragging my feet, “why are we going this far? We could’ve talked right
