June

I exhale slowly as I place the plate in front of Lucien.

For half a second, our eyes meet.

Then I look away.

It's automatic—like touching something that once burned me and yanking my hand back before the pain can return. I don't trust my face to stay neutral if I look at him too long.

I turn—and Hermes is coming toward the table with a bottle of wine in his hand.

His jaw is tight, too tight.

He's calm on the surface, but I know that look. I've seen it before. That is the look of ...