Weskirttheedgeof the ballroom, trying to make our way to Colt’s friends. It’s fuller now, the noise and glitter somehow even more obnoxious. The crowd surges around us, a tidal wave of faces I don’t recognize and never want to. I keep my head down and my mouth shut. Survival instinct.
He said I’m done serving and he will deal with Steele if it comes to that, and to try have a drink and relax. He should take his own advice. He’s wound so tight I think the tendons in his neck are going to snap.
A server brushes by, tray raised like a shield. I flinch, expecting the hiss of an insult, a glass in my face, a laugh I’ll never forget.It doesn’t come. Colton’s hand is at my back, steady, steering me to the far end of the room.
“Actually, can we get some air?”
He looks at me and says, “Sure. We can do that.”
My anxiety is setting in and a panic attack starts building in my core. There’s too much. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much energy, pressing in around me, all wanting to see what slice they can carve off of my soul.
It’s not until we reach the double doors that I exhale. The air is thin and cold and empty.
He doesn’t let go of me.
I look up. His jaw is a block of granite, eyes fixed on something I can’t see. There’s sweat beading at his temple, even though it’s freezing.
He says nothing, just pushes through the doors and yanks me into the dark.
The balcony is empty. Black iron railing, the paint chipping in places where it’s been worn down from the weather. A stone floor, grit and moss eating away at the grout. The night is bright—full moon, the grounds lit with expensive lamps, everything in sharp lines and no place to hide.
I head for the far end, lean into the chill, let my lungs fill with cold and try to scrape the last hour off my tongue. My hands shake. I ball them into fists.
Colton watches from the door, arms crossed over his chest, blocking any way back in.
He stands there so long I wonder if he’s left. But he’s still, just standing.
Watching.
I stare at the yard. There’s a big pool, water glittering in moonlight, the hedges trimmed to geometric cruelty. In the distance, a statue of some rich asshole. He’s holding a book in one hand and a cane in the other, eyes forever fixed on the house behind me.
Colton moves. I hear the step, but he’s silent otherwise. Suddenly he’s next to me, his hand covering mine on the rail. His palm dwarfs mine, hot enough to steam the metal.
We stand like that for a long time before my anxiety eats me alive.
Finally, I say, “Are you going to yell at me?”
He doesn’t answer.
I turn. His face is shadowed, but his eyes are dark as they study me. “Colton?”
His jaw flexes. “You want me to yell?”
I shake my head. “I want you to do anything but stand there pretending this is normal.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he says, so matter-of-fact I almost laugh.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “They want me to feel less.”
“Then let them,” he says, and the heat in his voice slices through the night. “You don’t have to fight them. That’s my job.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. He’s not wrong.
“Do you want to go back in?” he asks, but I can tell he already knows the answer.
“No.”
He nods. “Good.”
