Proserpina

Earlier that evening.

Jazz and Thomas were the only remotely familiar faces in the room and they came up, standing and chatting.

I had never exchanged more than a few words with Jazz; as for Thomas, the only time we had had much of a conversation had been when Lucien had taken me out on a disastrous night after my nineteenth birthday.

I felt a little uneasy when they stood beside me, speaking in a very familiar way.

But then, Lucien had moved away, looking glacial and dangerous as he watched me from afar, brooding as he stood, a hand in his trouser pocket, the other nursing the tumbler...