The music shifted—slower, heavier—rolling through the room like a warm current. The kind of beat meant for hips, not feet. The kind that changed the shape of the air itself.
Chain didn’t walk away.
He stayed right there in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body even without him touchingme. Close enough that the bass vibrated throughhimbefore it reached me. His gaze dipped to my mouth, then lower… then back up, controlled but burning.
“Dance with your friends,” he murmured, “or keep temptin’ me. Your call.”
My pulse scattered.
I didn’t step into him. But I didn’t step away either.
Instead, I let the music guide me again—slow this time, deliberate—my body finding the rhythm with an awareness I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before. Lucy and Zeynep spun off into their own little storm, Fiona laughing as she grabbed Bolt’s hands and dragged him into the mess.
But Chain stayed right here.
Watching me with a heat that tightened everything inside me.
I lifted my arms, running my fingers through my hair, letting the movement pull down the line of my throat. His eyes tracked it—hungry, restrained, like he was memorizing the shape of every breath I took.
The space between us grew thick. Heavy. Electric.
“Lark…” he warned softly, but his voice wasn’t reprimand. It was rough want wrapped in control.
I tilted my head, letting my body sway closer, not touching, just brushing the edge of his heat. “Something wrong?”
His jaw ticked. “Nothin’ wrong, little bird. Just debatin’ whether you know what you’re doin’.”
“Maybe I’m learning.”
“And maybe,” he said, stepping a fraction closer, so small it could’ve been the crowd shifting, “you’re playin’ with fire.”
“Maybe I like it.”
His breath hitched. Barely audible, but there.
The music shifted again, dipping lower, a sultry rhythm that invited slow circles and lingering movements. I let my hipsfollow it. Let my shoulders roll with it. Let my eyes stay locked on his the entire time, because something in me wanted him to see this.
Wanted him to see me choosing the heat. Not running from it.
Not anymore.
His hand twitched at his side. Not reaching for me, restraining himselffromreaching.
“Lark…” My name was almost a groan, almost a prayer, almost a curse.
I stepped closer—just an inch—just enough that the heat of his chest brushed my arm like a spark waiting to catch.
His breath shuddered out. “You’re gonna kill me.”
I smiled, small and real. “You don’t look dead.”
“You don’t look scared.”
“I’m not.”
Something in his eyes changed then—lowered, softened, darkened. A slow, charged shift that went straight through me. He reached up, lifting one hand a few inches like he wanted to cradle my cheek… but he didn’t touch. His fingers hovered near my jaw, close enough that my skin went hot under the promise of it.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.
