“You’re something, alright,” I say, trying not to smile too widely at his ridiculous confidence, though he does look hot in the navy suit he’s wearing.
“Are you seriously trying to distract me with your charm right now?”
“Is it working?” he asks with that infuriating smirk, spinning me gracefully.
“Maybe a little,” I admit reluctantly, “but I can still feel you scanning the room every few seconds.”
“Can’t help it. Occupational hazard,” he says, pulling me closer. “But for the record, I’m also genuinely enjoying holding you like this.”
“Even with a room full of potential assassins watching us?”
“Especially with a room full of potential assassins watching us. Nothing says fuck you to dangerous people quite like dancing with a beautiful woman.”
“That’s your master plan? Spite dancing?”
“Hey, if we’re going to potentially die tonight, we might as well look good doing it,” he says, dipping me smoothly. “Besides, I like the idea of them seeing exactly what they can’t have.”
“What they can’t have?” I raise an eyebrow as he pulls me back up.
“You. Us. This.” His expression grows more serious for a moment. “Whatever happens tonight, they can’t take this away from us.”
“You’re being sweet to make me forget we’re probably walking into a trap.”
“Is that a problem?” he asks, that cocky smile returning.
“Not even a little bit,” I say, letting him spin me again.
“Sinclair.” The sharp bark of a man’s voice cuts through the music, and I halt. I look past Malachi to see a towering figure pushing through the crowd toward us, a broad-shouldered man with flame-red hair and pale, freckled skin that’s currently flushed with anger. His narrow brown eyes are fixed on me with unmistakable fury, and his expensive black suit does nothing to soften the menace radiating from his hulking frame.
Malachi instantly shifts into protective mode, his body becoming a shield as he pushes me behind him. He turns to face the approaching threat, every muscle in his frame coiled for violence.
“I knew you looked familiar,” the red-haired man says over the sophisticated jazz. He completely ignores Malachi’s intimidating presence, craning his neck to peer around him. “Do you still belong to Marco Volkov?”
The question sends ice through my veins. People around us continue their elegant waltzes, oblivious to the danger, but I can feel curious eyes beginning to turn our way. I start stepping backward off the dance floor, my mind racing to place this man’s face.
“Don’t speak to her. Who the hell are you?” Malachi says, his stance widening into a fighting position.
The man’s aggressive demeanor wavers slightly when he registers the lethal promise in Malachi’s eyes, but desperation keeps him pushing forward.
“I know what you can do,” he says, his voice growing more urgent and uncontrolled. “I need your help. My wife died last month. They claimed it was a car accident, but I know better. That woman never drove a day in her life. It was a setup, and I need you to reach her. Do what you do. Contact her spirit, make her tell me who killed her.”
Several elegantly dressed guests pause mid-conversation, their attention drawn by his increasingly frantic tone. My throat tightens. The last thing I need is my abilities being shouted across this political nest of vipers.
“Keep your voice down, and I’ll consider helping you,” I hiss through gritted teeth, frantically motioning for him to lower his voice.
“She’s not helping you with anything. Back off.” Malachi takes a step forward and drapes his arm around me, trying to guide us away from the growing scene.
But the man’s grief and desperation override any sense of self-preservation. He lunges forward with surprising speed, his massive hand shooting out to grab my wrist in a crushing grip.
“Please, you have to?—”
In one fluid motion, Malachi produces a sleek blade from somewhere within his jacket and presses it against the man’s throat, the sharp edge drawing a thin line of blood.
“Let. Her. Go.”
“No, don’t!” I grab Malachi’s arm, knowing that violence will only make this worse. The man immediately releases my wrist, his hands flying up in surrender.
“You’re going to walk away right now, and if you ever—” Malachi says through his teeth.
