The rotor wash kicked up dust as I stepped out, the chopper lifting off behind me like a beast retreating to its lair.
Heads turned—hundreds of them, masked faces swiveling like I was the night’s main event. Women in glittering gowns sized me up, their eyes lingering on the cut of my tux, the breadth of my shoulders. Men straightened, sensing a threat.
I ignored them, striding toward the mansion with a purpose that made people step aside. Danes always got looks. It wasn’t vanity—it was just how it was.
The Langford estate was a monument to excess—huge columns, manicured gardens, chandeliers that could light a small country. Inside, the ballroom was a sea of masks and money, the air thick with perfume and ambition. Crystal flutes clinked, laughter rose and fell, and a string quartet played something expensive and forgettable.
I made a beeline for the bar, weaving through Charleston’s elite like a predator through prey. The bartender, a wiry guy with a goatee, raised an eyebrow as I slid a hundred across the counter.
“Keep the drinks coming,” I said, leaning in close. “I was coerced into this bullshit, so I need a friend who’ll get me drunk enough to forget I was ever here.”
He chuckled, pocketing the bill with a sleight of hand that’d make a pickpocket jealous.
“Got you, man.”
He poured me a double bourbon, neat, and I downed it in one go, the heat spreading through my chest like a welcome guest. Another followed, and the room started to soften, the edges blurring into something I could almost tolerate.
Charleston was out in force—gaggles of women with legs for days, dresses cut so low they were practically an invitation. They eyed me like I was dessert, their masks doing little to hide the hunger.
I ignored most of them, scanning the crowd for anything that screamed Department 77—shifty glances, hushed whispers, a vibe that didn’t fit. But mostly, I was looking for a distraction. A quick, no-strings fuck to burn off the night’s frustration. The bourbon was helping, warming me from the inside, loosening the knot in my gut.
Two women caught my eye, both in tight black dresses, their rhinestone masks glittering like they were advertising. They were fucking me with their eyes, practically offering a two-for-one deal.
I smirked, considering it, when a flash of red across the room stopped me cold.
Her.
The woman in red was a goddamn knockout. Her dress clung to every curve, the slit high enough to start a riot, the neckline daring enough to end one. Her mask was black lace, delicate but fierce, like she’d spun it from secrets.
Every head turned as she moved, her presence a quiet command. Men stared. Women whispered. She didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t care. Her walk was liquid, confident, like she owned the room and everyone in it.
I swallowed the rest of my drink, the bourbon searing a path to my gut. The bartender slid me another without asking, and I grabbed it, my eyes locked on her. The women in black were forgotten. This was the one. I needed her—needed to feel her under me, to taste the fire I knew was there.
For a second, Sloane’s face flickered in my mind, her sharp tongue and sharper glare. I shoved the thought away. Sloane was a one-off, a memory I didn’t need. This woman was now.
I moved toward her, cutting through the crowd like a lion through sheep.
An older guy with a paunch and a gold mask was leaning in, his eyes glued to her cleavage like he was committing it to memory. I stepped between them, smooth as whiskey, my shoulder brushing his just enough to make him back off.
“Pardon,” I said, voice low, polite, but with an edge that said he was done here. “Didn’t see you there.”
He blinked, opened his mouth, then thought better of it and shuffled off, muttering about his drink.
I turned to her, and up close, she was a fucking revelation. Her scent hit me first—something dark, like sin distilled into a bottle. My mouth watered, and my cock stirred, already imagining her pressed against me, her thighs wrapped around my waist.
“Nice dress,” I said, keeping my tone light, my mask hopefully hiding the way my eyes devoured her. “You trying to start a riot or just here for the free champagne?”
She tilted her head, her lips curving under the lace, a cascade of blonde hair catching the light. “Maybe I’m here to see how many men trip over themselves before they realize I’m not interested.”
“Harsh,” I said, grinning. “But I’m not tripping. I’m walking. Big difference.”
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a jolt straight to my groin.
“Confident. I like that. But this party’s a bore, don’t you think?”
“Like watching paint dry in a tux,” I said. “You got a better idea?”
Her eyes glinted behind the mask, sharp and playful. “Depends. You strike me as the kind who’d rather break rules than follow them.”
