He had not looked at the Black Swan who glided in with her mate -- in truth, he hadn't the appetite for just any finely sculpted creature. He wanted to tell himself that he would see anyone, smile at anyone. It wasn't the truth. He wanted to see one person above all. Subconsciously, it had been her that he was waiting for. Her. And he recognized her only by that honeyed voice. The first syllable shook him awake -- at least, that's what it felt like: as if he had been sleeping his whole life, and were suddenly presented with consciousness. A second birth. He took his first breath and stood at the lady's approach.
"I protest your costume, Madam," he said. And why they came so easily now, when he had been trying to find the right words to start any conversation with anyone moments before, he could not say. He extended his hand for hers, palm up, fingers flat and neat and strong -- almost a demand.
Catherine St. Giles. He held the name in his mind in the way a miser held a diamond: covetously, with feelings far harder than lust and far deeper than need. Almost a compulsion. No.... No. Not almost. She would be a madness to him if he allowed it. She was a fiery danger - and he'd tasted her type of flame before; he knew the burn. Some of the ice in his green eyes drew up and presented itself as a pitiful shield against her. She could hurt. Very deep. And she could not, for any reason, learn this.