“Dad,” said Adrian stiffly. “Always a pleasure.”

“For some of us.” His father studied me, and I saw his eyes fall on my cheek. He extended a hand. I took it, proud that shaking hands with Moroi was a non-event for me now. “Nathan Ivashkov.”

“Sydney Sage,” I replied. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”

“I met Sage while I was bumming around out here,” explained Adrian. “She was nice enough to give me a ride from L.A. today since I don’t have a car.”

Nathan looked at me in astonishment. “That’s a long drive.” Not nearly as long as the drive from Palm Springs, but we’d figured it would be safest—and more believable—to let him think Adrian was in Los Angeles.

“I don’t mind, sir,” I said. I glanced over at Adrian. “I’ll go get some work done. You want to text me when you’re ready to go?”

“Work?” he asked in disgust. “Come on, Sage. Go buy a bikini and enjoy the pool while you’re hanging around.”

Nathan looked between us incredulously. “You made her drive you out here, and now you’re just going to make her wait around for your convenience?”

“Really,” I said. “I don’t—”

“She’s an Alchemist,” continued Nathan. “Not a chauffeur. There’s a big difference.” Actually, there were days at Amberwood I doubted that. “Come, Miss Sage. If you’ve wasted your day driving my son here, the least I can do is buy you lunch.”

I shot a panicked look at Adrian. It wasn’t panicked because I was afraid of being with Moroi. I’d long since gotten used to these sorts of situations. What I was unsure of was if Adrian really wanted me around for his family reunion. That hadn’t been part of the plan. Also, I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to be around for said reunion either.

“Dad—” Adrian attempted.

“I insist,” said Nathan crisply. “Pay attention and learn common courtesy.” He turned and began walking away, assuming we’d follow. We did.

“Should I find a reason to leave?” I whispered to Adrian.

“Not when he uses his ‘I insist’ voice,” came the muttered response.

For a moment, catching sight of the gorgeous terrace restaurant and its sunny ocean view, I thought I could handle the Ivashkovs. Sitting out there in that warmth and beauty would be well worth the drama. Then, Nathan walked right past the balcony doors and led us to the elevator. We followed obediently. He took us down to the hotel’s ground floor, to a pub called The Corkscrew. The place was dim and windowless, with low-hanging wood beams and black leather booths. Oak barrels lined the walls, and what light there was came filtered through red glass lamps. Aside from a lone bartender, the pub was empty, which didn’t entirely surprise me this time of day.

What did surprise me was that Nathan had taken us here instead of the ritzy outdoor restaurant. The guy was dressed in an expensive suit that looked like it had come straight from a Manhattan boardroom. Why he’d ignore a trendy, elite restaurant for lunch and instead choose a stuffy, dark—Dark.