Crescentia was confused—no, more like completely thrown off—by the sudden chill in Damian's demeanor. One minute he was possessive and whispering things that made her knees weak, and now he was as cold and unreadable as a statue carved from obsidian.
She didn't know what her uncle or Damian's father might have told him, but whatever it was, it had shifted something between them. Something she couldn't name.
Instead of answering his earlier question, she redirected with one of her own. "When is this party going to end? It's starting to get late."
Clara had volunteered to take care of Noella for the night, ensuring she took her medication and had everything she needed. But that didn't mean Crescentia wanted to spend the entire night mingling with people who either hated her or wanted to dissect her like a science project. She never liked parties. And even now, she could still feel her relatives' glares burrowing into her skin like acid.
