“I can’t?—”
“You can.” His hand presses the small of my back, steering me forward until the lights catch us, until the crowd blurs into a thousand faceless shadows, until there’s nowhere to run.
And then we’re moving.
Slow. Deliberate. His limp is there, but he hides it in the sway, in the drag of his body against mine, in the way his handdoesn’t just rest at my waist but brands me, fingertips burning through the satin.
I hate how perfect it feels.
My cheek against his chest, my pulse syncing to the steady thud of his heart. His breath threading through my hair. The scrape of his jaw brushing the top of my head like he can’t resist marking me even here.
The others are smiling, clapping, spinning. We’re burning.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper, because it’s the only defence I have left. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Good.” His hand tightens at my waist, his hips pulling me closer until there isn’t a breath between us. “Let them see you’re mine.”
Heat floods me so sharp I shiver.
The song swells. His mouth dips lower, lips grazing my temple, then the shell of my ear, his voice dragging through me like barbed wire.
“God, Butterfly, you feel like home. Even here. Especially here.”
My fingers fist in his jacket, nails biting through the fabric. “Dax…”
He tilts me back just enough to see my face. His eyes blaze in the golden light, blue ice turned wildfire. And the way he looks at me—like he’s about to devour me whole in front of everyone—steals the air from my lungs.
“You’re the only thing in this room worth worshiping.”
The words gut me. Break me. Make me ache in places no touch ever reached.
His mouth finds mine then, not soft, not sweet, but slow. Like punishment. Like prayer. Like he wants everyone here to know I’ll never belong to anyone else.
And I let him.
I let him ruin me all over again in the middle of Lola’s perfect night because when his lips claim mine, when his hand drags up my spine and his body seals me against him, there is no wedding, no music, no world.
Just us.
The music swells, voices blur, the applause still humming in the air—and then his hand tightens at my waist.
Too tight.
Too sure.
Before I can protest, before I can breathe, Dax is steering me off the floor. One step. Then two. My heels scrape against the polished floor, but he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t give a fuck that Lola’s guests are still clapping, that the bride is glowing, that every camera is still snapping shots of perfection.
All I see is the way people part for him. Not politely. Not kindly. They just move. Like they can feel the violence in his veins, the war he still hasn’t shaken.
We break through the edge of the crowd, past a side door thrown open for the night air. The string lights fade behind us, the music dulls, and suddenly the world is darker, quieter, emptier.
Stone walls. A narrow hallway. The faint hum of pipes.
And him.
He slams me back against the wall before I can think, his hand braced above my head, his breath hot, whiskey-sweet and brutal.
“Do you have any fucking clue,” he snarls low, “what it did to me, watching you dance like you were mine and pretending you’re not?”
