The scent of rose oil clung to the air when Kieran pushed open the door. Anthea sat at her vanity, brushing her pale hair with long, measured strokes, as though she’d been waiting for him.

Her lips curved. “You finally came. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten I existed.”

Kieran shut the door with deliberate weight. “No one forgets you, Anthea. You make sure of it.”

Her laughter was low, practiced. “Is that meant as an insult or a compliment?”

“Neither,” he said flatly. ...