Rosalie was a fine young woman. She was tall and good-looking with impish features. With a flaming red dress that looked nothing less than a cheap copy of the ones that Bree used to wear and her brown locks tied in a bun with two curls left to dangle on the side of her face, Rosalie would have looked cute.
But she didn't. Cian's jaw was set as he brushed past Rosalie, who was standing in front of him as if she were hoping for something else other than his distant response. It was truly funny because Cian had never—not once—said anything that led her on or made her believe that he liked her.
Though he was a siren, Cian was not a heartless man who would lead women on and then dump them as if they were beneath him. He knew that he needed to be better than this; after what happened to his mother and the fact that he was blamed as one, it didn't sit well with him.
