Chapter 8 Mihalis #2
"Magnificent," she corrects, and the wonder in her voice catches me off guard. I suppose it looks different when she can take it in, not searching for places to hide.
She's not afraid. Nervous, yes, but not cowering or looking for escape routes.
Instead, she's drinking in the spectacle with the appreciation of someone who understands artistry when she sees it.
The realization that she can see Vestige the way I do—as something beautiful rather than just profitable—does something warm and dangerous to my chest.
We make our way through the crowd toward the VIP stairs, and I become acutely aware of the attention she's drawing.
Not the obvious, predatory stares that would require immediate correction, but something subtler.
Appreciative glances, speculative looks, the kind of interest that marks her as someone worth knowing.
It shouldn't bother me. Beautiful women draw attention in places like this—it's part of the atmosphere, part of what makes Vestige successful.
But every lingering look sends possessive heat through my veins, every appreciative glance makes my jaw clench with the effort of maintaining civilized behavior.
Halfway across the floor, a young xaphan with silver hair and expensive clothes steps directly into our path. His wings are pristine white—marking him as minor nobility—and his smile is polished in the way that suggests he's used to getting what he wants through charm alone.
"Mihalis," he says with the easy familiarity of someone who doesn't understand that using my first name uninvited is a privilege few possess. "Good to see you here tonight. And who might this lovely creature be?"
His gaze settles on Heidi with obvious appreciation, lingering on the elegant line of her throat and the way the emerald dress showcases her figure.
The look is respectful enough—barely—but something primal and violent stirs in my chest at the sight of another male cataloging her attractions.
He probably thinks she’s some sex slave he can buy once I’m done for the night.
Which makes me angrier than I should feel in a city where that’s usually true.
"She's with me," I reply, keeping my voice level through sheer force of will.
"Of course, of course." His smile doesn't waver, though something sharper flickers in his eyes. "I don't believe we've been introduced though. I'm Caelum Thorne."
He extends his hand toward Heidi with the expectation that she'll accept the greeting. A perfectly reasonable social interaction that should prompt nothing more than mild annoyance at his presumption.
Instead, I feel my wings spread slightly—a threat display I'm not entirely conscious of making.
"She's not available for introductions," I say, my voice dropping to a lower register that carries more threat than the words alone.
Caelum's eyebrows rise at my tone, but he's smart enough to step back. "No offense intended, of course. Enjoy your evening."
He melts back into the crowd, leaving us alone again, but the damage is done. The possessive fury that flared at his attention to Heidi hasn't subsided—if anything, it's growing stronger as I notice other appreciative glances being cast in her direction.
"That was rude," Heidi observes quietly.
"That was necessary," I correct, my hand tightening on her arm as I guide her toward the stairs.
She doesn't argue, but I catch the way she glances at me with something that might be curiosity. Or satisfaction. It's hard to tell in the shifting light.
The VIP lounge offers relative quiet and privacy, though we're not alone. A handful of regular clients occupy the plush seating areas, nursing expensive drinks and conducting the kind of business that requires discretion. I nod to familiar faces as we pass, but don't stop for conversation.
My usual table sits in the far corner, positioned to offer views of both the main floor below and all approaches to our location. Defensible, private, perfect for conducting business while maintaining awareness of surroundings.
I settle into the leather chair that's been mine for years, expecting Heidi to take the seat across from me. Instead, she hesitates beside the table, uncertainty flickering across her features.
"Sit," I tell her, gesturing toward the opposite chair.
She does, but something about the distance bothers me. The bond, probably—we're close enough that it's not causing pain, but not close enough to eliminate the underlying pressure entirely. Or maybe it's the way she keeps glancing toward the main floor, clearly fascinated by the spectacle below.
"Drink?" I offer, signaling one of the servers.
"Wine, if you have it."
I order wine for her and amerinth for myself, then lean back to study her reaction to our surroundings.
She's trying to appear sophisticated and worldly, but I catch small tells that give away her genuine fascination.
The way her gaze keeps drifting to the elaborate glass sculptures that serve as light fixtures.
How she traces patterns on the table's marble surface with unconscious appreciation for the craftsmanship.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me.
"I'm observing."
"Is there a difference?"
"Intent," I reply honestly. "Staring is invasive. Observation is... educational."
She does look at me then, storm-colored eyes sharp with intelligence. "And what exactly are you learning?"
That you appreciate beauty even when you're trying to hide it. That you're more comfortable with luxury than you want to admit. That the dress I chose brings out gold flecks in your eyes that make them look like precious stones.
"That you're not what I expected," I say instead.
The server arrives with our drinks before she can respond, providing a convenient interruption. She sips her wine carefully—testing for tampering, I realize, though she tries to make it look casual.
Smart. Paranoid, but smart.
"Your meetings," she says after a moment. "How long will they take?"
"As long as necessary." I check the time, noting that my floor manager should arrive soon. "Why?"
"Curiosity. I've never been privy to how places like this operate.”
Another piece of information to file away. For all her street-smart wariness, she's not familiar with high-end establishments. Which suggests her criminal activities have been limited to smaller targets, probably by necessity rather than choice.
"And what do you think?" I ask, genuinely curious about her assessment.
She considers the question seriously, her gaze sweeping the VIP area before dropping to the main floor below. "It's carefully constructed. Every detail serves a purpose—the lighting, the music, the layout. It's designed to make people feel sophisticated while loosening their inhibitions."
Accurate enough to be impressive. "Go on."
"The real business happens up here, away from the performance below. Down there is theater. Up here is where decisions get made." She meets my eyes directly. "It's brilliant, actually. And probably extremely profitable."
The genuine appreciation in her voice does something warm to my chest. Most people see Vestige as either sinful entertainment or a necessary evil. She sees it as the carefully crafted enterprise it actually is.
"You approve?"
"I respect competence," she replies. "Whatever else you are, you're good at this."
Before I can respond to that unexpected compliment, my floor manager appears at the table's edge. Marcus is reliable, efficient, and smart enough to not comment on my unusual companion beyond a polite nod in her direction.
"Sir. Ready for the weekly review?"
I should send Heidi away while we discuss business.
Revenue figures, staffing issues, security concerns—nothing she needs to hear.
But the bond's pressure increases the moment I consider asking her to move to another table, and something protective and possessive rebels at the idea of letting her out of sight in a place like this.
"Yes. Heidi, this is Rantel, my floor manager. Rantel, Heidi."
Rantel offers her a respectful greeting before settling into the chair beside mine with a folder of reports. As he begins outlining the week's numbers, I'm peripherally aware of Heidi listening with obvious interest. She doesn't interrupt or ask questions, but her attention never wavers.
Twenty minutes later, when Rantel finishes his presentation and excuses himself, she's the first to speak.
"Your revenue is up eighteen percent from last quarter," she observes. "That's impressive growth for an established business."
I stare at her. "You were following the numbers?"
"You were discussing them three feet away from me.
It would have been impossible not to follow along.
" She sips her wine, apparently unaware that she's just demonstrated mathematical skills that most nobles would struggle to match.
"The seasonal variations are interesting.
I assume winter brings higher volume because people want warm places to gather? "
"Among other factors." I'm still processing the casual way she absorbed and analyzed complex financial data. "Do you often listen to business discussions?"
"I listen to everything. It's a survival skill." She shrugs like advanced mathematical analysis is something every street thief masters as a matter of course. "Numbers don't lie the way people do."
Another mystery to add to the growing collection. Her education, her obvious intelligence, the cultivated way she speaks when she's not actively trying to intimidate or deflect—none of it matches the background I'd assumed for someone who makes her living through theft.
Before I can pursue that line of inquiry, my suppliers arrive. Two xaphan brothers who import rare spirits from the southern regions, men I've done business with for years. Their greeting is warm but professional, though I don't miss the way their gazes linger on Heidi with obvious curiosity.