For a moment, I forget everyone else. The crowd is a blur. My world narrows to her—how she glows in the low light, how every laugh or polite answer draws attention.
The men, God, the men stare. Their eyes linger on her curves, her mouth, the way her dress clings to her body. They think I won’t notice. They’re wrong.
When she slips away to the bar, I track her every step, heat rising in my chest. A man—an ally’s son, young and careless—leans too close, saying something that makes her laugh, soft and genuine. She smiles, hair falling over her shoulder, and I see red.
I cross the room in three strides, sliding in beside her so smoothly that the man startles, nearly spilling his drink.
I place a hand at the small of her back, just above the silk, and lean in close enough for only her to hear. “You’re mine, Clara.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise—then something in her gaze flickers, not with fear, but with heat. “Lukyan!” she begins, half reproach, half breathless.
I turn to the man, cold and polite. “Enjoying the party?”
He nods, backing away with the sharp instincts of a man who’s realized he’s already overstepped.
When he’s gone, Clara looks up at me, a flush rising on her cheeks. “Was that necessary?”
My hand lingers at her back, thumb tracing small, possessive circles. “You have no idea what you do to them.”
She swallows, gaze darting away. “What do I do to you?”
The question hangs between us, electric. I want to answer. God, I want to tell her she wrecks me, that every smileshe gives someone else is a knife to my chest, that I’d tear the world apart to keep her looking only at me.
I don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I let my hand drift to her hip, grounding us both.
The rest of the night becomes a blur of touches and tension, of eyes meeting across the room and lingering too long. I guide her through introductions, each handshake and compliment stoking the possessive edge in me.
Every time someone looks at her, I draw her closer; every time she laughs, I want to claim her right there, remind everyone who she belongs to.
She senses it, I know she does. The way her breath catches when my hand finds her waist, the way she leans into my touch when we drift into a quiet corner to escape the press of the crowd. The way she glances up at me when a conversation lulls, as if searching for something she can’t name.
In the garden, beneath strings of golden lights, we find a moment alone. She stands in the shadow of a tall hedge, moonlight on her hair, shoulders bare to the breeze. I move behind her, my hand sliding around her waist, my mouth at her ear.
“You’re dangerous like this,” I murmur. “You make me want things I shouldn’t.”
She turns, eyes shining, lips parted. “Maybe I want them too.”
We don’t kiss. Not here, not yet. But we linger, breath mingling, wanting thrumming between us like a promise.
When we return to the party, it’s as if the rest of the world has faded away. Every glance, every brush of fingers, every loaded silence is charged and intimate. The others talk and laugh, the music swells, but all I hear is her.
At the end of the night, as we wait for the car, she stands by my side, her fingers laced with mine beneath the shadows. She doesn’t pull away when I hold her close, doesn’t flinch when I whisper her name, low and rough.
“You’re mine, Clara. Always.”
She nods, eyes dark with longing and something fierce. “Yours,” she says quietly, the word a spark that lights a fire in my blood.
We ride home in silence, the city lights streaming past, her hand tight in mine.
My greatest battle is right here, in the space between her heart and mine.
The city blurs by in golden smears, headlights reflected in the windows, but all I see is Clara—her dress clinging to her legs, her mouth parted in the low light, her hands restless in her lap.
The tension between us has only sharpened. I can feel it thrumming in my pulse, tight in my chest, heavy in my gut. My knuckles go white on the seat; every time she glances at me, something dark and possessive surges inside me.
She’s quiet, but I catch the way her breath shudders, the way her thighs press together when the car rounds a corner. I want to reach for her, to slide my hand over her bare knee, to claim her right there.
I wait, drawing out the anticipation, letting it grow. I want her to feel it—want her to ache the way I do.
