Page 113 of The Alpha King's Hunt
I spot a few familiar faces across the room, donors I've schmoozed a hundred times, old partners from previous foundation collaborations. Without thinking, I grab Octavian's hand.
"Come on."
We move through the crowd, weaving between clusters of evening gowns and tuxedos, and it takes me a full thirty seconds to realize I'm still holding his hand. I pause mid-step, look down at our fingers entwined, then up at his face.
"Oh. I didn't mean—" I start to let go, suddenly self-conscious, but his grip tightens.
"I like holding your hand," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "We can do that tonight. It plays the part."
He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek. "But just so you know, I'm not acting. If it were up to me, I'd never let this hand go."
My heart does something complicated and embarrassing in my chest. Heat floods my face, and I look up at him, probably blushing like a goddamn teenager. He smiles, a real smile, not that controlled half-curve he usually gives, and I nearly forget how to breathe.
We keep walking.
The first group we encounter is a married couple I've known for years. Major donors to the Trust, old Boston money that stretches back to the Mayflower or some such nonsense. The wife, Constance, air-kisses both my cheeks.
"Keira, darling, you look absolutely stunning. And who is this tall drink of water?"
"Thank you. This here is…" I hesitate for half a second, then commit. "My boyfriend, Octavian."
If we're playing the part, let's play it.
The word feels strange on my tongue. Boyfriend. Like that explains whatever the hell we did on my kitchen counter this morning.
But Octavian doesn't miss a beat. He shakes the husband's hand and nods politely at Constance.
"A pleasure," he says.
"Oh, do I detect a slight accent?" Constance asks. "Where are you from?"
"Romania."
"Oh, Romania," Constance gushes. "How exotic."
Octavian shrugs, unsure how to respond.
The conversation changes, and we chat for a few minutes about nothing important before moving on.
Before I know it, I've slipped into what I always do: work the room, make connections, remember names and faces and the little details that make people feel seen, all with Octavian at my side. It just feels so right.
From group to group, I introduce him as my boyfriend again and again, and each time it gets easier, feels more natural. People smile, shake his hand, make small talk. A few of the women eye him, and I find myself pressing closer to his side, staking my claim.
As we step away from a particularly tedious conversation about stock portfolios, Octavian leans in. "Want a drink?"
"Champagne," I say immediately.
"Be right back."
He walks off toward one of the stationed bars, and I watch him go, admiring how sexy it is that he looks like a dark angel in a designer suit.
Almost immediately, a small group of donors I recognize from previous events approaches me, and I slip back into conversation mode. We're discussing the Trust's upcoming winter initiatives when I realize I'm cold again, arms breaking out in goosebumps despite the body heat of hundreds of people packed into the space.
One of the men, Jerry something, I think, notices. He starts to shrug off his jacket, reaching toward me with that particular brand of chivalry that always feels vaguely condescending.
"Oh, here, let me?—"
He freezes mid-motion, eyes going wide.
