The crowd had learned to stare without pretending not to.
It was almost admirable.
Elara crossed the courtyard beneath the amber wash of late afternoon light, her steps measured, her chin neither lowered nor raised too high. To appear untouched was an art. To be untouched was another matter entirely.
The bond stirred—not fiercely.
Watchful.
Like a hand hovering at the small of her back.
She did not look for him.
That was the new rule.
Not cage. Not possession.
Partnership.
Still, the air shifted when she walked past the stone fountain. Conversations thinned. Whispers followed.
"Tsk."
A voice, syrup-sweet and sharpened at the edges.
Francesca Ferrari leaned against the marble railing as if the courtyard had been built for her performance alone.
Her hair fell in calculated waves. Her smile was lacquered perfection. Her eyes, however—those were knives.
