Chapter 4
The Count's Gaze
Count Armand de Valois singles out Elara for a private dance, his touch cold and his eyes holding a hunger that both frightens and fascinates her.
The music swelled, a cascade of strings and woodwinds that seemed to breathe with the pulse of the room. I had been watching the dancers from the edge of the ballroom, a glass of champagne warming in my hand, when I felt it—a presence, cool and certain, settling over my shoulder like a draught from a tomb.
“Mademoiselle Elara.”
His voice was honey poured over ice. I turned, and there he was: Count Armand de Valois, a figure carved from moonlight and shadow. His coat was the color of dried blood, his cravat a starched white that made his face seem even paler. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, held mine with an intensity that made the chatter of the room fade to a distant hum.
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