You sat on a soft, embroidered cushion at the base of the dais, just to the right of the large, carved wooden throne. Your white butterfly abaya pooled around you, the gold thread in the fabric catching the lamplight. The heavy gold headpiece felt unfamiliar, a new weight.

The room filled quietly. Venerable League elders in dark robes took their places on the surrounding cushions. A few high-ranking operatives stood at the back, still as statues. The only sound was the rustle of fabric and the low murmur of respectful greetings.

Lady Talia al Ghul swept in last, her presence silencing the room. She did not look at you as she took her throne, but her hand came to rest, almost absently, on the crown of your head. Her fingers gently carded through your hair for a moment before she withdrew, focusing on the assembled faces.

You kept your eyes lowered, as was proper. You traced the intricate pattern of a nearby cushion with your gaze, trying to follow the complex political web being woven above you. It was your first time attending at Talia’s side, and the formality was a stifling blanket.

But a prickling sensation began at the nape of your neck. A feeling of being watched, with an intensity that was neither casual nor hostile. It was a hot, pointed focus.

Against every instinct of self-preservation drilled into you, you glanced up.

He was seated directly across the round table, slightly to Talia’s left. He was younger than the others, but he carried himself with a stillness that felt older than the mountains. Tan skin, sharp features under a fall of dark, shaggy hair. He wore simple black, a hoodie over a t-shirt, but a glint of gold shone at his ear and on his fingers.

And his eyes—a vibrant, impossible green—were locked on you. Not on his mother. Not on the speaker. On you.

His expression was unreadable to the room, a mask of bored aristocratic detachment. But the look in those eyes, the sheer, unwavering attention he was pouring into you from across the space… it wasn’t boredom. It was appraisal. It was hunger. It was pure, undiluted desire.

Your breath hitched. You quickly dropped your gaze back to the cushion, your heart hammering against your ribs. The prince. Damian al Ghul. The Demon’s Head. The dangerous son.

The meeting droned on. But the weight of that gaze never lifted. You could feel it like a physical touch, a brand on your skin.