I wish I could stay up here all night. I wish there wasn’t a world outside this stolen pocket of time, but it’s just that. Stolen. This isn’t my home. Not anymore. I’m not even sure I have one anymore. Not after what I did.

(The kiss.)

Groaning, I push myself up to stand. I wobble only slightly as I make my way back downstairs. It’s a minor miracle I make it downstairs without dying. I’m sure there’s some quote about God smiling on the reckless. Probably something Kiki read to me once.

Don’t think about Kiki.

When I reach the crowded salon, I spy Rosalita’s dark hair as she throws back her head to laugh at something some asshole nobleman just said.

I huff, indignant. “All think they’re comedians, don’t—”

The words die in my throat when my eyes land on the man Rosalita is speaking to.

Sebastian.

Under my breath, I mutter, “Son of a bitch.”

The last person I want to see. Especially now, in my current state. On a good day, my inhibitions are flimsy at best. Today is not a good day. Kiki is always the one to hold me back when I need holding.

Now, the only thing stopping me from slaying this worthless, entitled prick is my own self-control.

So, basically, there’s absolutely nothing stopping me.

The next few moments I would blame on the wine if I didn’t know myself better. Unfortunately, I do, and it’s exactly the kind of shit I would do stone-cold sober.

My feet move forward, one right after the other through the crowd. My elbows shove aside perfumed women and simpering men without a single care. My eyes have a solitary target, and he is all I can see.

One of Sebastian’s cronies catches my eye and nudges him in the side with his elbow.

He doesn’t have friends, Kiki once told me. He has sycophants.

(I still don’t know what the hell a sycophant is, and I don’t much care. Also, I should not be thinking of Kiki, and yet, somehow, she is always there.)

Sebastian turns to me, his handsome face catching the light of the fire roaring merrily in the hearth. His jawline is frustratingly solid. He looks like he might be playing some tragic hero in a stage play.

He holds up his cup in a mocking salute as I approach.