Leila
I walked into the Ball de la Rose with Lucas' hand clamped around mine, and the air shifted, thick with the scent of perfume and greed. The crowd parted like a wound, their murmurs rising sharp and jagged, slicing through the haze of gold and candlelight. My legs twitched with returning sensation, pins and needles prickling beneath my skin, but they hadn't fully woken from whatever had hollowed me out. I pressed myself tight against Lucas, not because I wanted to, but because the alternative was crumbling to the floor like a broken doll. The thought of that - of their eyes feasting on my weakness - kept me tethered to him, my body a traitor to my will.
Lucas, the bastard, held me like a trophy. His arm coiled around my waist, too tight, too warm, a mockery of protection. His finger
