Chapter 8 Mihalis
MIHALIS
Aweek of this. A week of Irida orchestrating elaborate schemes to throw Heidi and me together at every opportunity.
Tea parties where she insists we both participate, reading sessions where she demands we sit close enough that our knees touch, walks through the garden where she 'accidentally' gets distracted by interesting rocks, leaving us alone to make stilted conversation about weather and snow sculpture techniques.
My daughter has all the subtlety of a volcanic eruption, but her campaign is working despite my better judgment.
The pinching in my chest has evolved into something more insistent—a persistent ache that only eases when Heidi is within arm's reach.
This morning, when I tried to leave for an early meeting at Vestige while she was still sleeping, the pain hit me like a blade between the ribs before I'd even reached the front door.
I'd found myself turning around, climbing the stairs to check that she was still breathing, still present, still anchored to whatever invisible tether now connects us.
She'd been awake, sitting by her window with a book from my library, and the relief that flooded through me when our eyes met was both welcome and deeply irritating.
"The bond is progressing faster than usual," Jelle had confirmed yesterday when I'd finally swallowed my pride and asked for another consultation. "Fighting it may be accelerating the process rather than slowing it down. Your magic recognizes what your mind refuses to accept."
Which brings me to tonight's problem. I have business at Vestige—real business, the kind that requires my physical presence and can't be delegated to subordinates.
The quarterly review with my floor managers, followed by a meeting with suppliers who won't deal with anyone but me personally.
The kind of evening that typically lasts until well past midnight.
The kind of evening that, a week ago, I could have managed without any consideration for anyone else's schedule or comfort.
Now, the thought of being separated from Heidi for eight hours sends sharp warning pains through my chest, like my body preparing for the worse agony that will follow. Leaving her here isn't an option anymore.
Which is how I find myself standing outside her door at sunset, holding a garment box and trying to convince myself this is purely practical.
"We're going out," I announce when she opens the door. No preamble, no explanation—just the facts delivered in the same tone I'd use to inform her the sky is blue.
She blinks at me, clearly still adjusting to the reality that our interactions no longer begin with threats or demands for her immediate cooperation. "Going out where?"
"Vestige. I have business that can't wait, and the bond won't let me leave you behind."
Something flickers across her expression—surprise, maybe, or calculation. She's gotten better at hiding her thoughts this week, but not better enough to completely mask the way her pulse jumps when I mention the club.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Neither do I," I agree, extending the box toward her. "But practicality wins over preference. You'll need appropriate clothing."
She takes the box reluctantly, like it might contain something that bites. "What's wrong with what I have?"
What she has is practical, serviceable clothing designed for warmth and mobility. Dark trousers, simple shirts, boots meant for function rather than fashion. Perfectly appropriate for building snow creatures with my daughter or reading in my library.
Entirely wrong for Vestige, where appearance is currency and the wrong outfit marks you as prey.
"Vestige isn't a place for practical clothes," I explain, though explaining feels strange after a week of mostly communicating through shared glances and careful politeness. "It's a place where being overlooked can be dangerous, and standing out incorrectly can be fatal."
She opens the box despite her obvious reluctance, then goes very still at whatever she finds inside. When she looks up at me again, her cheeks carry a flush that has nothing to do with the warmth of her room.
"This is..." She trails off, apparently unable to find words for whatever she's discovered.
"Appropriate," I finish firmly. "Vestige has expectations. You'll need to meet them."
The truth is more complicated. I'd spent an embarrassing amount of time selecting the dress, rejecting option after option until I found something that would showcase her natural beauty while keeping her safe.
The deep emerald silk will bring out the gold flecks in her eyes, while the high neckline and long sleeves ensure she won't attract the wrong kind of attention.
Elegant enough to mark her as someone under my protection, modest enough that I won't spend the entire evening fighting the urge to murder every male who looks at her.
Not that I'm admitting any of that out loud.
"I'll wait downstairs," I add when she continues staring at the box like it's full of serpents. "Twenty minutes."
She nods mutely, still apparently processing the implications of whatever she's found in the silk-lined interior.
I retreat to my office to handle last-minute correspondence, but concentration proves elusive.
Every few minutes, I catch myself listening for sounds from upstairs—footsteps, running water, the rustle of fabric.
When silence stretches too long, anxiety creeps up my spine with suggestions that she's escaped through her window or collapsed from some delayed reaction to the bond's pressure.
Ridiculous concerns, but the bond makes rational thought increasingly difficult when she's not in sight.
Twenty-three minutes later, I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Measured, careful steps that suggest either nervousness or calculation—possibly both. I close the file I've been pretending to read and turn toward the office door just as she appears in the doorway.
Every coherent thought abandons my brain.
The dress fits her like it was crafted specifically for her body—which, considering the skill of my usual tailor and the measurements I'd provided, it essentially was.
The emerald silk skims her curves without clinging, the deep color transforming her pale skin into porcelain and making her eyes look like storm-touched seas.
Her hair falls in dark waves over one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
She's beautiful. Not just attractive or appealing, but genuinely, devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight and my hands itch to touch.
"Will this be acceptable?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that suggests she knows exactly what effect she's having.
"It will suffice," I manage.
She raises an eyebrow at my tone, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "High praise from someone who owns the most exclusive club in the city."
The teasing note in her voice is new—a development from our week of careful coexistence.
She's been testing boundaries, offering small glimpses of who she might be when she's not actively planning escape routes.
This version of her, confident and slightly playful, does dangerous things to my self-control.
"We should go," I say before I can do something stupid like tell her how stunning she looks.
The carriage ride to Vestige passes in carefully maintained silence.
I’d usually fly but I chose not to embarrass her by carrying her around again.
She sits across from me rather than beside me, maintaining proper distance while staying close enough that the bond's pressure remains manageable.
Every so often, I catch her studying me with the same intensity I'm trying not to direct at her.
The problem is that proximity makes everything harder to ignore.
The way she moves with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of the soap she uses, the occasional flash of genuine emotion across her features when she thinks I'm not watching.
A week of being near her constantly has made me acutely aware of details I have no business noticing.
Like the way she holds herself when she's nervous—shoulders straight but hands clasped tightly in her lap. Or how she unconsciously touches her lower lip when she's thinking. Small things that speak to deeper vulnerabilities she works hard to hide.
Vestige's exterior glows against the winter night, obsidian walls reflecting the light from enchanted sconces.
The usual crowd waits behind rope barriers, hoping for admission to spaces they'll never be wealthy or connected enough to access.
My carriage passes them without stopping, pulling directly up to the private entrance reserved for ownership and VIP guests.
"Stay close," I tell Heidi as we exit the carriage. "Don't wander, don't accept drinks from anyone but staff I personally introduce you to, and don't leave my sight."
She nods, but I catch the way her eyes scan the crowd with professional interest. Old habits, probably—cataloging exits and opportunities even when she's not actively planning theft.
The moment we enter Vestige proper, the atmosphere washes over us like a physical force.
Heat, sound, the press of bodies moving to music that seems to pulse with its own life.
The main floor churns with dancers and drinkers, all beautiful, all dangerous in their own ways.
Smoke from enchanted pipes creates hazy clouds that shift color with the light, and the air itself seems charged with possibility and threat.
Heidi's hand finds my arm automatically—whether for comfort or guidance, I'm not sure. The contact sends heat racing through my veins, and the bond's constant ache eases to barely noticeable pressure.
"This is..." she breathes, voice barely audible over the music.
"Overwhelming?" I suggest, placing my free hand over hers to keep her anchored to my side.