"Thank you," Sean says smoothly, shaking the man's hand. His voice is hard, but crisp, a professional quality to it that seems different than his normal tone. "Maeve, this is Robert Fitzgerald. He works with the Council in Dublin.”
I shake Mr. Fitzgerald's hand and smile, falling into the role I learned growing up. The polite daughter, the perfect accessory. It comes back easier than I expected, muscle memory from years of lessons on social graces, even if I rarely appeared in public to use them.
But it feels hollow. Fake. Like I'm wearing someone else's skin.
More people approach. Sean introduces me over and over—his wife, Maeve. Some of them knew my father, and theyoffer condolences with canned sympathy. Some ask about how we met, and Sean gives them the flat answer that the Council arranged our marriage in the wake of my losses. Some just assess me with calculating eyes, probably wondering what the Wolf of Dublin is doing with someone like me.
Through it all, Sean keeps his hand on my back or my arm, maintaining physical contact. To anyone watching, we probably look like happy newlyweds.Not that it should matter, I think bitterly. We have to look happy because it’s expected not to air out our problems in public, but everyone here knows this isn’t a love match. The fact that we have to pretend, I think, is stupid.
I spot Flynn across the room, looking completely at ease in his tuxedo. He's talking to a stunning woman with long dark hair and an expensive-looking champagne evening gown. She's laughing at something he said, touching his arm, and Flynn is eating it up.
"That's Gia Moretti," I say quietly, seeing Sean looking at them. "Her family is Italian mafia-adjacent. She’s a socialite who’s been looking for a husband for over a year now. She was a candidate for Ronan before Siobhan won that match.”
“She seems to like Flynn,” Sean says. “Not that he’d ever be appropriate for her.”
There's something in his tone I can't quite read. Maybe... relief? Like he's glad Flynn's attention is elsewhere?
"She's beautiful," I murmur.
"So are you."
The words are quiet, almost reluctant, but they send warmth spreading through my chest. I look up at Sean, but he's already turning away, guiding me toward another group of people who want to see the Wolf's new wife.
The evening blurs together. Endless conversations, questions about my family that make my throat tight, champagne I barely touch because I'm afraid of losing what little composure I have.Sean stays close the entire time, a solid presence at my side, but I can feel how uncomfortable he is. This isn't his world either. He's a weapon, a killer playing dress-up in a tuxedo.
We're both pretending to be something we're not.
"Would you like to dance?" Sean asks suddenly, and I realize the orchestra has started playing. Couples are moving onto the dance floor, swaying together to a slow waltz.
"I... I'm not a very good dancer," I admit. “I was forced to take lessons, but I never caught on to it. Clumsy, remember?”
"Neither am I." Something that might be amusement flickers in his dark eyes. "But we should probably make an appearance."
He leads me onto the dance floor before I can protest. His hand settles on my waist, warm through the thin silk of my dress, and he takes my other hand in his. I place my free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric.
We're closer than we've been since yesterday, when he sparred with me in the gym. Close enough that I can see perfectly the hue of his green eyes, can smell his cologne mixed with the warmth of his skin, a hint of shaving cream. He’s closer than any other man has ever gotten, closer than I would ever have allowed anyone else, and the signals my body is sending confuse every other part of me.
"Just follow my lead," he murmurs.
We start to move, and to my surprise, Sean can actually dance. Not expertly, but competently enough that I don't stumble. He guides me through the steps with the same precision he brings to everything else, his hand firm on my waist.
"Where did you learn to dance?" I ask quietly.
“From time to time, an assignment requires I show up at something like this and look like I belong,” he says, his mouthtwisting slightly. “Even a weapon for the Council has to have certain… social skills.”
The bitterness in his voice surprises me. I've never heard him talk about the Council like that before—like he's something they use rather than someone who chooses to serve them.
"I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
"Don't be." Sean's hand tightens on my waist, pulling me fractionally closer. "This isn't your fault."
But it feels like it is. Like I'm another obligation the Council forced on him, another weight he has to carry.
We dance without speaking for a while, the music washing over us. I become hyperaware of every point of contact—his hand on my waist, my hand in his, my other hand on his shoulder. The heat of his body so close to mine. The way he smells, clean and masculine. The way his thumb moves slightly against my waist, a small unconscious movement that sends shivers through me.
This is the closest we've been outside of training. The most intimate we’ve been since our wedding night, even though we're surrounded by hundreds of people.
"Maeve?" a voice says, and I turn to see a woman I vaguely recognize. Mrs…. something, I can’t remember. I think she was friends with my mother. "Oh my dear, it is you! I heard about your sister… and your father, and brother. Such a tragedy, losing your whole family so young."
