Valtherion arrived exactly at seven, looking devastating in dark slacks, a charcoal button-down that brought out the blue in his eyes.

His expression when he saw me.

I'd borrowed a dress from Lyra, deep burgundy that hugged my curves, made every nerve ending come alive.

"You're beautiful," he said simply.

"You clean up pretty well yourself."

He drove us to a restaurant on the edge of the Warren, upscale enough to require reservations, not so fancy that I felt completely out of place.

The maître d' greeted Valtherion by name, led us to a private table in a corner with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights.

"Do you bring all...