I don't wait for his response, just turn and walk as quickly as dignity allows toward the exit. I feel his eyes following me, burning a hole between my shoulder blades, but he doesn't call me back. Small mercies.
The hallway outside the ballroom offers momentary relief. The sounds of laughter and music fade as I move farther down the corridor, searching for a quiet corner to collect myself. What am I doing here? Playing dress-up in a world I don't belong in, letting myself be swept away by a man who's so far out of my league we're not even playing the same sport?
I find a small alcove with a window overlooking the snow-covered grounds. The glass is cool against my forehead as I press against it, trying to slow my racing heart. Through the window, I can see the hotel gardens transformed into a winter wonderland, string lights glittering among snow-laden branches. Beautiful, but cold. Untouchable.
Like Christian.
"Running away?"
His voice behind me makes me jump. I turn to find him standing at the entrance to the alcove, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. I didn't hear him approach—how does someone so commanding move so quietly?
"Just needed air," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's a lot in there."
"The mistletoe game," he says, taking a step closer. "That's what spooked you."
It's not a question. Of course he sees right through me.
"I don't like being the center of attention," I admit. "And I'm already standing out enough tonight."
"Because you're with me."
"Yes."
"And that bothers you?"
I sigh, frustrated at my inability to articulate my feelings. "It's not that. It's—I don't belong here, Christian. In this world. With these people. With you."
"Says who?" he challenges, taking another step closer.
"Says reality," I counter. "Look at me. I make Christmas ornaments in a small-town shop. You run a global corporation. You live in a world where people play kissing games at formal events and everyone watches to see who you'll choose. It's?—"
"Intimidating?" he supplies.
"Terrifying," I correct him.
Another step closer. He's only an arm's length away now. "What are you really afraid of, Sophie? The crowd? The game?" His voice drops lower. "Or me?"
The question hangs between us, demanding honesty. I swallow hard, finding courage I didn't know I had.
"Myself," I whisper. "I'm afraid of how much I want things I shouldn't."
His eyes darken, the gray turning stormy. "Such as?"
"You know what."
"Tell me anyway."
I shake my head, unable to form the words. How do I admit that his possessiveness thrills me? That his controlling nature, which should send me running, instead draws me closer? That when he growled "She's with me" during our dance, I wanted nothing more than for it to be true?
He closes the final distance between us, not touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body,smell the expensive cologne that's become familiar in just one night.
"You don't have to be afraid of wanting me," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest. "It's the most natural thing in the world."
"For tonight," I remind him, repeating what's become our refrain. "It's just tonight."
Something flashes in his eyes—determination, possession, hunger. "We'll see."
From the ballroom, laughter erupts, followed by applause. The mistletoe game is in full swing. Christian's gaze flicks in that direction, then back to me.
