Their date that day was unexpectedly tedious.
Devlin found it difficult to keep his attention on his date, his mood sour and distracted. He was aware that he was acting like a dick, his attitude probably too cold and unapproachable. Liam seemed to have given up on trying to strike up a conversation with him after a few hesitant attempts and focused his attention entirely on the aircar race. When Liam spoke, he spoke only to the beta chaperone who had accompanied them to the race.
By the time the race was over, Devlin had a headache once again, his body brimming with tension and anxiety, the source of which he couldn’t pinpoint. He barely had the patience to smile for the paparazzi as they left the track, and his smile was probably very strained. Hopefully he didn’t actually look like he wanted to punch someone.
He dropped Liam off, and then he hesitated, looking at the Blake house. It would be only polite to inquire how Julian was feeling.
Devlin pulled his phone out of his pocket and entered his credentials. Strictly speaking, he was using his privileged position to access private data, but he did have the security clearance for it.
After finding Julian’s phone number in the database, he hesitated. What the hell was he doing? This was abuse of power.
His misgivings, however, didn’t stop him from texting Julian. Are you all right? I thought you wanted to watch the race. -Devlin
The reply came almost instantly. How do you know my number? Don’t make me add ‘stalker’ to the list of your dubious qualities, Your Grace.
Devlin found himself smiling. He could practically see the endearing little scowl on Julian’s face, his brows furrowed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
I have my sources, he typed back. You didn’t answer my question.
This time the reply took longer. Julian was typing and then pausing before starting to type again.
Devlin drummed his fingers on the upholstery of his seat, looking at the phone impatiently.
His pilot cleared his throat. “Should I take off, Your Grace?”
“One moment,” Devlin said as his phone screen lit up with a message notification.
I just didn’t feel like being the third wheel tonight. I’m sure you were glad not to have me there for once.
Glad wasn’t the word he would use. The date had been tedious.
After a moment, Devlin typed, I was really looking forward to your commentary on the race. It’s always entertaining.
Julian didn’t start typing his reply immediately. At last, he responded, Was it good? The race? Did you have fun?
Devlin stared at the message. He had no idea whether the race was good or not—he hadn’t paid attention. Your brother seemed to enjoy it. Are you going to the Irvings’ ball tomorrow?
Yeah, Julian replied after a moment. Liam has some kind of surprise for me there. I promised to go.
Devlin frowned. I’ll see you there, then.
Julian didn’t reply.
***
The Irvings’ ball was as unpleasantly overwhelming to his heightened senses as all balls were. At times like these, Devlin wished he had been born in Kadar: the Kadarians didn’t have a social season filled with parties and balls, their society having long moved past such things.
He had to actively suppress his senses at such social functions, employing meditative techniques Ilona had researched for him when he was a child. Fuck, he didn’t know what he would have become if his childhood nanny hadn’t been so sympathetic and helpful—he would have likely been as much of a social wreck as most Xeus alphas were. There were so few Xeus alphas in high society for a reason: their aggression and heightened senses were just too difficult to control in big crowds. Those of them who served in the army actually had to take some suppressants in order to function adequately.
Devlin’s eyes searched the crowded ballroom for Liam’s golden head. Once he found him, surrounded by his usual crowd of admirers, he continued looking. Julian should be nearby. He normally was.
But not this time.
It took Devlin a few more minutes to locate him. Julian was dancing. He was dancing with Viscount Nasr—and smiling at him. It wasn’t his fake strained little smile but his genuine one, the one that made him look ridiculously endearing. Judging by the way Nasr was gazing at him, he found it more than a little endearing, too.
Devlin frowned. Nasr wasn’t the sort of man Julian should be smiling at that way. The viscount was much too old for him. He must have been, what, thirty-six? Old enough to be Julian’s father.
Devlin moved toward the dancing couple, ignoring people trying to strike up a conversation with him.
He tapped Nasr on the shoulder and said, “May I steal your dance partner?” Without waiting for Nasr’s response, he pushed him away with his shoulder and took his place.
“Wha—”
But Devlin was already leading Julian away.