Page 72 of The Sin

Geneva closed the dossier and folded her hands on top of it. The moment stretched into seconds, into minutes, then she said, “Every rebellion needs a spark. And you, Georga, are our spark.”

I assumed she meant the information in that dossier, but I claimed it for myself anyway.

I would be the spark.

We wouldn’t burn this world to the ground. That wasn’t our way. But I would happily light this damn world on fire.

22

Friday evening arrived, and with it, the night of the Foundation Ball.

Mom had totally come through for me. The dress my father had delivered earlier bore no resemblance to the puffy-sleeved monstrosity that she’d dragged out from her bedroom closet.

I should have had more faith in her genius designer abilities, just like I should have had more faith in my father. I’d dreaded our first confrontation, worried he would be so disappointed in me. But he’d drawn me in for a hug, and there was no condemnation in his eyes, only love. He insisted Roman and I come over for Sunday lunch, and he’d said nothing about my recent unavailability.

Roman was in the shower when I unboxed the dress and stepped into it. I couldn’t reach the pearl buttons that started just below my shoulder blades, so I left those for him and moved to stand before the mirror.

The shawl had been stripped from the square bodice, and the sleeves were slender, delicate chiffon cuffs that just clipped the curve of my shoulder. There wasn’t a bow or pouf in sight. Mom had also recut the skirt so it skimmed my hips and then flared slightly to swirl around my ankles.

I heard the shower turn off, and my skin flushed. Usually I preferred comfort clothes, but the thought of Roman seeing me in this sexy dress was definitely worth the effort. I smoothed my palms down my sides and when I turned from the mirror, he was slanting a shoulder against the doorframe with a wolfish grin, arms folded, wearing nothing but a towel that rode low on his hips.

His hair was damp, falling over his forehead in a mess. His close-shaved jaw was all angles and shadows, darkly chiseled and pulse-stopping.

His eyes glinted with sinful thoughts.

“Could you?” I turned to the mirror again, giving him my back. “I can’t reach the buttons.”

He came to stand behind me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” My breath hitched. “You don’t look too bad, yourself.”

His thumb grazed a path down the column of my throat, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not dressed,” he drawled, low and husky.

Awareness raised heat over my skin, and I felt wicked, wickedly brave. “Maybe that’s the way I like you.”

A chuckle rumbled from him as he pressed a sensual kiss to my collar bone. He pressed another kiss to the hollow of my neck and a deliciously warm shivered cascaded through me. I started to turn into him, but his hands went to my hips and stopped me.

“If you do that, we’ll never get to the damn ball.”

“I’m not the one prancing around half-naked and dropping kisses all over the place.”

He chuckled again, his gaze adoring me as his large fingers fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons.

This was such a rare, perfect moment, I held onto it tight. I locked it into my heart. And I carried that feeling with me when we climbed the steps to the pillared porch of the Capra Foundation Building a short while later.

Music filtered through from the massive arched oak doors that were flung wide open.

Roman’s hand rested on the small of my back, his reassuring presence pressed close to me. We paused on the threshold, where a guard stood sentry with a scanner to read Roman’s citizen tattoo. As if anyone would ever dare to gatecrash this prestigious event.

A double line of guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the vestibule, all the way from the outer doors to the inner sanctuary of the main hall. They were dressed in their ceremonial uniform. Gray pants with the Eastern Coalition colors striped down the outer seam. Red, black and gold. The stiff-collared tunics were a deeper gray, also with the colored stripes along the sleeves and down the central lapels.

A man exchanged our coats for a ticket, then we had to walk through the standing parade to reach the hall. It was all very grand and impressive, no doubt designed to inspire awe at the Eastern Coalition’s magnificence and feverish loyalty to their cause.

Theircause.

That hit me in the chest.

For the first eighteen years of my life, it had beenourcause. The Eastern Coalition had been like a grumpy old grandfather,mineto grumble about,myburden to bear. I was part of the good and the bad.

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