Page 73 of The Sin

When I’d fumed over what Capra had taken from us, Geneva had corrected me.Not Capra, she’d said.The council.

I needed to remember that. The council was a group of mere men. Their views could be reformed. They could be replaced.

But Capra was my home, my family, my friends. The Eastern Coalition was a manifestation of the future of mankind.

I couldn’t give up on them.

I wouldn’t.

The hall had been transformed for the ball. Voluminous swathes of material hung from the ceiling along the sides, bold banners in red, black and gold. Even the soft lighting appeared gold.

At the far end, a string quartet played a haunting tune that spilled across the hall.

The seating was informal, only a handful of cozy tables and chairs backed against the wall for the dozen or more couples mingling around the edges of the dancefloor or gathered by the buffet table. No one was dancing yet, but apparently the aim was to keep people on their feet with only the brief, occasional respite.

We spotted a friendly group and steered ourselves in that direction. Along the way, Roman snagged two glasses of sparkling wine from a server’s tray and passed one to me.

Daniel grinned when he saw us approach, and opened up the circle so we could slot in around them. Brenda looked stunning in a red and gold embroidered dress with a stiff cuff collaring the back of her neck. Her hair was done up in an elaborate style and strands of diamond tears dripped from her earlobes.

“You never came around to choose a dress,” she reprimanded lightly, “but I see you found something after all.”

“My mother cut up an old dress of hers,” I said.

“Wow.” Her gaze travelled up and down me, admiring my mother’s handiwork instead of shooting off some snarky comment.

For a moment, she reminded me of the old Brenda, the girl I’d once considered a friend—a good friend.

“My mother would simply have cut up Mr. Burnier,” Lisa inserted dryly, “if he’d refused to come through for us in a fashion emergency.”

She was probably being serious, but laughter still burst from me. Brenda giggled as well, and after a dramatic eye roll, Lisa’s lips twitched.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Roman squeezed my hand, then left my side to chat with Daniel and Lisa’s husband, Brian.

We picked at the finger foods and sipped on our wine, and the conversation inevitably turned to who was wearing what.

Brenda brought us the latest scandal from Mr. Burnier’s changing rooms. “Mrs. Crickle and Mrs. Davenport were fighting over the last length of brushed maroon velvet. They went on and on, and it actually turned into a tug-of-war, right there on the shop floor. Mr. Burnier finally had enough. He stepped in with his shears and cut straight through the middle. He gave them each one half, which wasn’t large enough to do anything with,andhe charged them for it.”

It felt a little odd to be standing here, enjoying such mindless conversation after the last few weeks I’d had, but I was enjoying it—maybe because of the last few weeks I’d had.

The music changed. A few older couples led into a Waltz on the dancefloor. After a minute, more couples joined them.

Daniel led Brenda off, and it wasn’t long before Brian swooped Lisa away, as well.

Roman swept an arm around my waist and pulled me into him, my back to his chest. His voice was a warm breath near my ear as he said, “I don’t dance.”

“I never imagined you did,” I said softly. He’d grown up in The Smoke. When the Capra boys had been learning dance moves for the graduation balls, Roman had been wandering the wilds, searching for Amelia and waiting for things to cool down after he’d killed the man who’d sold her.

I arched my neck backwards to look up at him. “I’m exactly where I want to be, in your arms.”

He dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I love you.”

One day, I wouldn’t melt each and every time he said that in his low, husky baritone, but not anytime soon. I rested my head back against his chest, thoroughly content to stand here on the sidelines, wrapped in his body and his intoxicatingly male scent.

I saw Julian wasn’t dancing, either. He was seated at one of the small tables with Miriam. They each had an arm draped on the table between them, and his hand covered hers. As if he had the right to that intimacy, the right to still love her.

My gaze snapped away to skim over the dancing couples, and landed on Mrs. Bickens gliding in her husband’s arms. Snowy brows and sideburns dominated his face. He was built like a brickhouse, his body bulging against his ceremonial uniform.

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