Page 36 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Beneath the linen, a dress appeared. Lavish and impossibly old, yet still miraculously intact.

Silk, heavy and rippling in deep caramel tones.

The bodice was boned and fitted, edged with soft ivory lace at a wide neckline.

I reached for it, touched the fabric with my fingertips.

It was stiff with age, but the silk still held a ghost of softness.

And as I gave myself over to the darkness rising around me—sinking into it like water—I felt Baird’s lips press gently against my neck. Right in the place they always went—where my pulse thrummed just beneath the surface, lifting the skin in tempo with the pounding of my heart.

It was like he could feel it too. As if he knew that spot wasn’t just tender—it was important . A place where something in me opened. To him.

I hear Baird’s voice faintly in my ear—though I can’t tell if it comes from beside me or from somewhere in front of me.

“I have ye, Mira… I want ye to see it all this time. See the truth only ye can.”

Music fills my ears, and suddenly—I am wearing the dress.

It swishes and sways with each movement, the fine woolen petticoats underneath trapping heat against my skin, clinging to my legs in the warm night air.

I am dancing.

My heart pounds—not with fear, but joy. I feel jubilant, alive, spinning through a room full of laughter and music. Men and women in lavish formal attire move in perfect time around me, a choreographed harmony.

My body knows the steps of this unfamiliar dance. My right arm reaches for one stranger, then my left for another as we turn, switch, and spin. We all move together like parts of a living clock. I find myself lined up across from a row of men, my eyes drawn to the one directly in front of me.

He reaches out his hand. We circle each other, playful, magnetic. His body draws me in like gravity, his nearness heating my skin—not with sweat, but with something else.

Desire.

Candlelight flickers over us as we move. I finally let my gaze rise to take him in.

Tall—at least a foot taller than me. Broad, powerful shoulders. He wears camel-colored breeches, tall boots, a finely embroidered waistcoat, and a deep blue cutaway tailcoat with polished brass buttons.

He spins me again, and I laugh—throwing my head back, the sound bubbling up from a place in me I haven’t touched in years. I can’t remember ever feeling so free.

And then I see his face.

Suntanned skin, the lines around his eyes deepening when he smiles like this. The strong nose, the square jaw. Those green eyes I know so well.

Baird.

I am dancing with Baird .

I hear his voice again—distant this time, and oddly disconnected from his lips, which aren’t moving.

“Mira, what do you see? Tell me…”

Confusion stirs. My smile begins to falter.

A chill gnaws at my spine—cold, creeping upward, unwelcome. I feel eyes on me. Watching. Claiming.

I stop moving, lifting the hem of my skirts as I step backward off the ballroom floor.

Baird stands frozen, his face a portrait of love one moment, then confusion as he watches me retreat. I want to go back to him. Want his arms, his safety. But something is pulling me away—something I can’t resist.

I turn.

And I know who I’ll see before my eyes find him.

He stands near the wall of the ballroom, a goblet of wine in hand. His eyes—liquid mercury—are fixed on me, drilling into me like knives made of ice.

The dark man.

His hair is longer now, curling near the collar of his black and gold brocade jacket. He is handsome—unsettlingly so. Not like Baird. This is a beauty with sharp edges. A dark fox in human form. It hurts to look at him.

I try to look away. Try to move. But I am frozen. My body screams to run, adrenaline flooding my veins, but my feet are rooted to the ground.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

And still—I know he is controlling me.

“Mira! Mira, come back to me. Talk to me!” Baird’s voice calls out, far away now.

I turn toward the dance floor to find him, my paralysis loosening just enough to let me look over my shoulder—

But he’s gone.

The guests have vanished. The music has stopped.

Only silence remains, thick and unnatural, like the room itself is holding its breath.

The ballroom is empty. Except for me.

And him.

The man with the silver eyes moves toward me—slowly, deliberately. His gaze sweeps over me like a predator assessing its prey.

He circles, close enough that I can feel the chill radiating off him. His presence brushes against my skin like a shadow come to life.

That psychic tether pulls taut again, locking my limbs in place. I can’t move. Can’t even turn my head.

I’m caught—held fast in his gravity.

An impossibly long finger reaches out and touches my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw with excruciating patience. The touch burns—cold and stinging, like dry ice kissed to flesh.

He moves behind me. I feel his finger trail along the back of my neck, catching on a curl that escaped my updo, then circles back around, facing me again.

He looks into my eyes—searching, debating.

And then, in a voice that is somehow both male and female, layered like two tones from opposite sides of the veil, he says:

“Baird is the best one to tell you this story, Mira…”