CHAPTER 18
Your Greatest Curse
He did not flinch at the mention of Constantine. Instead, he let out a short, sharp huff of air—a sound that was more an insult than a laugh. He picked up his wine glass, swirling the dark liquid with a rhythmic, predatory grace, his obsidian eyes never leaving hers.
“Constantine?” He repeated the name as if it were a flavor of cheap wine he had long ago discarded. “You have been reading the history books, I see. Or perhaps just the tabloids.”
A heavy, suffocating silence settled between them, thick with the unsaid and the dangerous. It was an awkward, jagged tension that seemed to vibrate in the very air she breathed. Rory felt the cold weight of it pressing against her chest; she could not quite discern if the silence was a wall or a trap, but the truth
