Chapter 8 Keira
KEIRA
The lights feel too bright when we step back inside.
I force my shoulders back, my chin up, and scan the room like I'm looking for someone important. Octavian walks away and I don't look at him. I can't. He's been getting under my skin for weeks now.
The nerve of him.
With his square jaw and his sharp eyes and his you'll-get-yourself-killed attitude. I can still feel the way he looked at me out there, like I was the most reckless creature he'd ever been assigned to protect. Like I wasn't just his job. Like I was a fucking liability.
I press my lips together and smile at a couple as I pass. Pretend I'm calm. Composed.
My thoughts drown out the orchestra's soft strings and the polite laughter rippling through the crowd.
Across the room, near the dessert table, I spot Bridget Murphy, one of the admins who's been with the Trust for a few years.
She's clutching a clipboard like it's a life raft, her mousy brown hair pulled into a tight bun, and she's wearing a loose-fitting blue dress that makes her look older than she is.
She's also the exact person I wanted to talk to tonight.
I make a beeline for her and smile as I weave through the crowd.
When I get close, she starts talking to some guests, nodding and smiling.
"Bridget," I say warmly, touching her elbow. "Can I steal you for a second?"
The donor, some older man in a bow tie, looks annoyed, but I flash him a smile. "I'll bring her right back," I promise.
Bridget follows me toward the far corner of the room, near the hallway entrance where the lighting is softer and the noise dies down just enough.
No one will question a quick donor update. Not here.
I lean against the wall, keeping my posture casual.
"How's the night going?" I ask, my voice low.
She shifts her weight, her fingers tightening around the clipboard.
"Fine. Good turnout. The caterers were late, but we managed."
"Good."
I pause for a moment, prepping myself.
Then I lean in slightly, dropping my voice even lower.
"You've been handling Shadowharbor coordination for what, like two years now, right?"
Her eyes narrow and she looks confused.
"Yeah. For the coordination of the winter events mostly. Securing venues. Site plans. Vendor approval. Stuff like that. Why?"
"Has anything ever felt off?"
She hesitates, her gaze darting toward the crowd like she's checking to see if anyone's watching.
"Off how?"
"I don't know. Strange. Anything that didn't sit right."
Her lips press into a thin line as she contemplates.
"A few days ago we had a meeting with Shadowharbor reps to go over the supply chain stuff for the joint event next month. Nothing major. Napkins, servers, table rentals. But…"
She trails off, glancing around again.
I wait.
"Well, I arrived early to the meeting, and there were two new reps from Shadowharbor that I didn't recognize," she continues. "They were strange. Almost agitated. Like they didn't want to be there. One of them kept looking around the room like someone was watching."
"Did they say anything?" I ask.
"I only heard a little, but one of them definitely said something about some Morrígan meeting or something. I don't know, but —"
I blink.
"What?" I ask, cutting her off.
"Yeah, that's what he said," Bridget confirms. "And then the other one told him to shut up. I thought it was weird, but I didn't know what to make of it."
"That's totally weird," I say, trying to hide my internal panic. "Was, was anyone else in the room?"
She nods. "Three other vendors. But they weren't paying attention."
I nod, looking around the room, feeling exposed now.
"Did they say anything else?" I ask, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my chest.
"Not that I heard. But the vibe from them was weird. Like they were angry…"
I nod slowly, forcing a small smile.
"Do you think you could point them out if you saw them again?" I ask.
"Oh yeah, for sure."
"Thanks, Bridget. I'm sure this is all nothing, but I appreciate you telling me."
She doesn't look convinced.
"Keira, if something's going on—"
"Nothing to worry about, just enjoy the night," I interrupt gently, touching her arm. "And keep listening. If you hear anything else, let me know."
She nods, though her expression remains uneasy.
I watch her slip back into the crowd, her clipboard clutched to her chest.
Her words cling to me, heavy and sharp.
I turn toward the bar, needing something stronger than champagne, and that's when I feel it.
His gaze.
I glance up, scanning the room, and see Octavian typing something on his phone. He does that a lot, I've noticed. I wonder who he's talking to.
He glances up and our eyes meet.
I hold his stare, refusing to look away first, even as my pulse stutters.
He slides his phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact. He doesn't blink, just watches me.
I hate how steady he is. How sure. How easily he sees things I don't want seen.
And I hate that for one small, insane second, I don't feel entirely alone, and that's starting to feel good.
Ugh. I break the stare first, turning toward the bar with more force than necessary.
I reach the bar and order the strongest whiskey from Ireland they have, neat as Daddy always insisted, ignoring the bartender's raised eyebrow.
"Rough night?" he asks, sliding the glass toward me.
I don't answer.
The whiskey burns going down and I breathe through it. I let it settle in my chest before taking another sip.
I glance back toward where Octavian was standing, but he's moved.
Gone.
Or worse, closer probably.
I scan the room again, my fingers tightening around the glass.
Why the hell am I looking for him?
What I need to be doing is my part. Figuring out what the hell Shadowharbor's angle is before it blows up in all our faces.
I stay at the bar, nursing my whiskey, watching the room like a hawk.
That's when I notice him.
A man in a clean-cut suit, standing near the entrance to the side hallway.
He's too polished for staff and not polished enough for donors, and he's staring at me.
It’s not the casual, appreciative stare I'm used to, this one is assessing.
I hold his gaze for a moment, my fingers tightening around the glass.
He doesn't look away.
Doesn't smile.
Just watches.
Then he takes a black feather out of his pocket and smiles at me, turns, and disappears.
I set my glass down, almost choking on my drink.
What the fuck?
But before I can move, a hand touches my elbow.
I turn sharply, ready to bite someone's head off, and find Octavian standing beside me, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Who was that?" he asks, his voice low.
"I don't know."
"You looked at him like you did."
"I looked at him because he was looking at me."
Octavian's jaw tightens, just slightly.
"Where did he go?"
"Through that door, I think," I say, pointing in the direction he went.
He doesn't say anything, just steps past me.
I follow before I can stop myself.
"Octavian."
"Stay here."
"Like hell I am."
He doesn't slow down.
We reach the door, and I realize its a service door.
Octavian opens the door and walks in, his hand hovering near his jacket where I know he keeps his gun.
I stay outside, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
A few seconds later, Octavian comes back out.
"He's gone?" I ask.
He nods.
"He was watching you since we came back in."
"People watch me all the time."
"Not like that."
He turns to face me, his dark eyes sharp.
"You need to tell me if something's happening."
"Nothing's happening."
"Don't lie to Keira," he says, coming close to me.
The air between us goes tense and electric.
I cross my arms, refusing to back down.
"I'm not lying. I don't know who he was. But I'll find out."
"We'll find out," he says. His voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge to it that makes my breath catch.
"Also, you don't get to pull people into corners and have quiet conversations," he continues, stepping closer.
"She works for me, and if I have a question to ask about the event, I'm going to ask her," I say.
His jaw tightens, his eyes searching mine.
"You're too close. You're suffocating me," I say as he towers over me.
He doesn't flinch.
Doesn't step back.
Just stares at me like he's trying to figure me out.
And God help me, I can't look away.
The air turns, and the only thing I can smell is the faint scent of his cologne, which is all I smell now. From the car, to the spare bedrooms, to here, now. It surrounds my life.
My chest is warm and tight. It's the whiskey, I'm sure.
"Better get back to it. People are expecting you," he says finally, his voice quieter now.
"Fine."
But neither of us moves.
We just stand there, locked in a silent standoff, the tension between us coiling tighter and tighter.
Finally, I turn and he grabs my elbow softly before releasing it without a word.
As we walk, my hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
Not from the feather.
Not from the whiskey.
Just the problem walking beside me.