Pavel leans against a column. “You want her name?”
“I want to see what she does,” I answer, eyes fixed on her. “Anyone can look pretty in this place. Not many can look dangerous.”
Izzy drifts away, catching the interest of an older man with silver at his temples. The woman in black lingers by a tray of drinks, finger tapping the crystal in a silent staccato. I watch as a stranger tries to draw her into small talk; she sidesteps, smile brief and brittle.
“See?” Pavel murmurs. “A stray.”
I shake my head. “No. A trespasser.”
He grins, teeth flashing. “And what will you do with a trespasser?”
I finally turn to meet his gaze, letting a slow smile curl at the edge of my mouth. “Whatever I want.”
Pavel laughs, clapping me on the shoulder before vanishing into the crowd. Alone again, I let my attention settle back on her. The rest of the ballroom fades into a blur of sound and color. I watch her catalog every person, every doorway, every possible escape.
I watch, and I wait.
I cross the floor when the timing feels right, unhurried but decisive. She sees me only at the last second, her eyes widening, posture snapping tight.
“Dance?” I say, making it clear it’s not really a question. She hesitates, chin lifting, searching my face for something. I meet her gaze, level and intent, and after the barest pause, she nods.
“Fine.”
Her hand is colder than I expect. Steady, though, not trembling. There’s resistance in her grip, no limp acquiescence, and it makes my blood quicken.
The crowd fades as I guide her onto the floor, letting the orchestra pull us into the current. She keeps her spine straight, shoulders set. I sense her calculation; every step she gives me is deliberate, earned, never freely surrendered.
I speak little. There’s no need. She says even less. Her replies are clipped, cool, the edge of wit visible beneath each word. Not flirty, not meek. Testing. I push her just enough, myhand drifting to the small of her back, fingers splaying against silk and skin.
She doesn’t melt. She doesn’t shy. If anything, she stiffens, a flash of irritation flickering in her eyes. I want more of that. I want to see how far she’ll go before she snaps.
Around us, the waltz swells. I guide her through the turns, keeping her close but never fully pulling her in. Her mask shifts, the line of her jaw tense with every step. She is not afraid. Not exactly. More like braced for impact, ready to fight if pressed. It’s rare, that strength. Most crumble under my gaze, eager to please. She holds her ground.
I find myself speaking low, words pitched only for her, each phrase chosen to prod, to provoke. Her answers come without softness, always measured. She keeps her secrets close, and I respect that. I sense her mind racing as fast as mine, both of us cataloging each twitch, each hesitation, each breath.
My hand lingers at her waist, thumb pressing ever so slightly, just to remind her—remind myself—who leads here. When the music ends, she is the one who steps back first, breaking the connection before I can. I let her go, just to see if she’ll look over her shoulder. She doesn’t.
The scent of her stays with me: jasmine and smoke, familiar now, already tangled up in want. I watch her slip into the crowd, mask clutched in her hand, hair askew.
There is no relief in the letting go, only a tightening, a promise of pursuit. She’s marked now. No chance meeting ever carried such weight; I don’t believe in chance, anyway.
Pavel finds me again, mouth twitching with that same old amusement. I say nothing. My eyes remain on the door where she disappeared, already plotting. This is no ending. just the firstmove in a game neither of us asked for, but both of us know how to play.
Pavel reappears as the last notes of the waltz die out, a ghost at my elbow, eyes darting after the woman in black. He’s always had a nose for what interests me. Tonight, he seems amused by it.
“She’s fast,” he says, voice pitched low in Russian. “Already halfway to the coatroom. You lose your touch, Boss?”
I hand him my untouched glass. “Keep your jokes for someone who cares. I want a name.”
Pavel grins, watching over the rim of his drink as the woman’s friend intercepts her near the exit. “The sparkly one. Izzy, she’s Bruno’s girl, right? Art-world type. The quiet one, your dancer… not sure. She’s not on any of the guest lists I’ve seen.”
“She came with Izzy,” I say, tracing the edges of the ballroom with my gaze. “Find out who she is. Don’t spook her.”
He makes a little mock salute. “You want both, or just the one who caught your eye?”
“Both. Bruno’s girl too. They leave together? I want to know where. Friends make people careless.” My eyes linger on the shadow of her form just visible at the top of the marble stairs. “They say things they shouldn’t.”
He laughs. “Subtle, Boss. You planning to do the watching yourself, or do you want me to play doorman all night?”
