Julian finally lifted his head, slowly as he trembled and his eyes widened.
Across the vast expanse of the ballroom, standing near the water that danced under the crystal light, was the charcoal-grey figure he had been searching for. Alaric stood there like a pillar of granite in a room of silk.
The Duke's black domino mask was fixed squarely in the direction of the Emperor, and his eyes were fixed on the figure in midnight blue, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might shatter.
He knew it—even if Julian was covered from head to toe with a different identity—he could feel it right away that that was his lover. That… was his Julian.
Julian's heart did a little flip, and his expression softened and even melted behind his mask. Lucien. He hadn't seen him in a week; he had suffered, cried, pleaded, but he never appeared. But now here he was.
My Lucien. Julian's mind whispered, a silent prayer that finally reached his lips in a ghost of a breath.
