I placed my hand in his.“Yes.”
His grip was firm, grounding, as he led me onto the floor.His other hand settled at my waist.We moved together easily.Too easily.
His lead was subtle, refined.He didn’t force my steps—he anticipated them, guiding me through the intricate patterns of the waltz.His control was seamless and absolute.The room around us was glistening chandeliers, murmured conversations, a sea of elegant gowns and tuxedos that faded into nothing.
The control was public, deliberate.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
“I am,” I replied.
“Then stop bracing.”
I did—just slightly.Enough to let the rhythm carry me.
The music swelled, and we continued to dance.Each step carefully measured, each turn executed with meticulous control.I followed his lead.There was only him.Only us.His grip on my waist tightened just slightly, a silent acknowledgment.And then, for the briefest moment, I saw a flicker, a hesitation.His gaze softened, just enough to make my heart stutter.But before I could hold onto it, before I could breathe it in, it was gone.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Creed said quietly.
“Thank you.”
His hand pressed against the small of my back, warm, searing, a steady pressure that held me exactly where he wanted, and where I wanted to be.
He turned me smoothly, effortlessly, his body a wall of heat against mine.I felt him in every breath, every subtle shift, every calculated motion.
“Relax,” he said, his voice barely more than a breath.
“Easier said than done.”
His fingers brushed my spine in a way that sent heat rippling through me.The simple touch was devastating, a reminder that even in my rebellion, my body still answered him.
“Try,” he murmured.
And God help me, I did.
I let go, just a fraction, sinking into the rhythm, into him.The tension between us shifted and became something darker, heavier, electric, a pulse of something I couldn’t name, something neither of us dared to acknowledge.For the first time in weeks, it felt like we were moving toward something.
I searched his face, not for reassurance, but for orientation.
“You didn’t bring me here to punish me,” I said softly.
“No,” he agreed.“I brought you here because power doesn’t disappear when it’s wounded.It adapts.”
The words settled deep, undeniable.
“And because I wanted to see whether you could adapt with me.”
That was the truth, clear and unvarnished.
And for the first time since the gala began, I understood the stakes.
The final notes of the song swelled, and he pulled me closer, close enough that I could feel the unsteady rhythm of his breath, the tension coiled in his muscles.My heart pounded, a mix of fear and longing swirling inside me as his eyes searched mine, his gaze dark and unreadable.
As the song ended, he released me.The warmth of his touch vanished, leaving a cold void in its absence.He led me off the dance floor, then stepped back, his movements careful, controlled.
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, a woman appeared, her crimson gown catching the light like molten fire.
“Creed,” she purred, her voice smooth, laced with familiarity.
