CASSIAN
Mateo de la Vega is a man who loves the sound of his own voice. For the last forty minutes, I had been subjected to a monologue regarding the vintage of his cellar and the "primitive beauty" of the Andalusian hills.
I nodded where appropriate. I smiled the practiced, empty smile of a man who had spent his life navigating boardrooms and galas. But my mind was a thousand yards away, focused entirely on the small, silver remote tucked into the pocket of my slacks.
My thumb brushed the dial.
Across the paddock, I watched Noah stumble. I watched Alex Hendrix... that insufferable, opportunistic leach... place his hands on Noah's waist to "steady" him. I felt a surge of cold, possessive fury that nearly broke through my mask.
"You seem distracted, my boy," Mateo observed, a knowing glint in his eyes. He looked toward the paddock, then back at me. "Perhaps the heat is getting to you as well."
