The absence of his touch is worse than his grip. I straighten my shoulders, stepping past Melanie with a brittle smile that feels like glass about to shatter. Her perfume hits me, something expensive, cloying, too sweet, and I wander if Colter can still feel her mouth around him, the way I saw it in the pool house.
I don’t know why I expected him to choose me over her. To declare she wasn’t anything to him. It was a fantasy I created in my mind that will never come true. I’m not sure why it hurts. Unsure of the feeling coursing inside of me. Why did I expect someone like Colter to choose me when he has someone like her.
A perfectly put together barbie doll who fits into his perfect little world while I am nothing but an outcast. A pity project.
My heels click against the marble as I retreat, pulse hammering, lungs aching, but my head is high. I will not give either of them the satisfaction of seeing me splinter.
Behind me, I hear her laugh, light and practiced. “Honestly, Colter. You really should stop wandering off. People will start to talk.”
And I know he’s still watching me leave and I can’t figure out why.
Just like I can’t figure out why every step away from him feeling like ripping out a vein.
24
The ballroom hums with chatter,glasses clinking, and the swell of music threading the air. I should be listening to my father drone on about some deal, but my focus hasn’t shifted once from Peyton.
She’s across the room now, sitting pretty at the table, back straight, smile polite enough to pass. But I see the tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers twists against the stem of her glass. She doesn’t belong here—and fuck if that doesn’t make her stand out even more.
Every man sees it. Every one of them wants to test how far she’ll bend before she breaks.
And then Oliver Maine decides to be the sacrificial idiot.
He strides up to her chair with a grin too wide, bowing slightly like he’s some gentleman out of a fairytale. I see his hand extend, the way his lips shape the words even from across the room.Dance with me.
For half a second, I expect her to say no. To cut him down with that sharp little tongue she’s been using on me since the moment she walked into Broken Ridge.
But she doesn’t.
She looks up at him, lashes lowering, and she smiles. Small. Careful. But still—she fucking smiles. Then she lays her hand in his and lets him help her to her feet.
A hot crack splits down my chest.
The chair scrapes behind my when I stand, the sound sharp enough to silence half the table. My father glances at me and Sutton arches a brow, but I don’t give a damn. My pulse is a snarl in my veins, my jaw locked so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.
On the dance floor, Oliver places his hand at the small of her back. The same place mine was not twenty-minutes ago. His fingers skim silk that isn’t his to touch, and the sight of it is gasoline on open flame.
She tilts her chin, smiling politely as he pulls her closer. Too close. He says something, and she laughs softly. The sound I should be earning from her. Not him.
The leash snaps.
I cross the room with slow, deliberate strides, every inch of me vibrating with a violence that makes men part before I reach them. The crowd shifts, creating space as I step onto the dance floor. Oliver doesn’t notice me yet. He’s too busy looking at her like she is his prize.
My hand cuts in, sliding over Peyton’s hip, and I tug her clean out of his arms. My chest collides with her back as I drag her flush against me, my palm flattening over stomach, pinning her in place.
“Mind if I cut in?” My tone is polite, but my smile is lethal when I finally lift my gaze to Oliver.
He freezes, mouth opening like he might argue. One look from me shuts him down. Peyton stiffens in my arms, her breath stuttering when I dip my head close enough that only she can hear me.
“You think you can say yes to him and not pay for it?” My lips brush her ear, my voice a growl meant to brand itself into her bones. “You’re mine. I don’t give a fuck what game you think you’re playing.”
Her pulse hammers beneath my palm. I can feel it, quick and sharp, betraying every emotion she’s trying to hide.
“I’m not the one playing games, Colter,” she snarls, her eyes darting to where Melanie is quietly fuming on the edge of the dance floor.
Across from us, Oliver swallows hard, mutters something about needing a drink, and retreats. Smart move.
The music swells. I tighten my hold, guiding Peyton into the rhythm, forcing her body to sway with mine.
