“Alaina’s good at that.” His voice sharpens slightly. “She’s been watching me for years. Thinks she’s subtle about it.”
He knows. He knows about the whisper network. The business cards. The escape routes.
And he doesn’t care.
Because he knows they can’t stop him. Knows his grandfather’s portrait hangs on the wall. Knows Henry Caldwell will make any problem disappear. Knows that three generations of Ashford men have learned exactly how to get away with murder in this city.
“Come on.” He steers me toward the dance floor. “They’re about to start the music. I want everyone to see us together.”
Everyone. All these donors and judges and ward leaders who’ve been protecting Ashfords since before I was born.
He wants them to see. To witness. To know.
She’s mine, he’s saying.I’ve chosen her. She belongs to me now.
But there’s nowhere to run. No exit I can take that won’t end my career, destroy Alex, condemn us both. Dom owns me. Marcus is claiming me. And the system that was supposed to protect people like me was built by men like them.
So I let him lead me to the dance floor. Let him pull me close. Let him put his hands on my waist like he has every right to touch me.
And I smile. Because that’s what women do. That’s what we’ve always done.
We smile and we survive and we pass business cards to the next girl and hope it’s enough.
The music starts. Something slow. Romantic.
Marcus pulls me closer. His hand slides from my waist to my hip. Lower than appropriate. His thumb hooks into the fabric at my hip bone—territorial, calculated, daring me to object in front of everyone.
I don’t object. Can’t. A hundred people are watching us dance and every single one of them thinks this is romantic.
His breath against my ear. Wet.
“You’re shaking,” he observes.
Not concerned. Amused. The way you’d note that a trapped animal is trembling before you decide what to do with it.
“Cold,” I lie.
“Liar.” He says it like an endearment. His hand tightens on my hip. “I can feel your heartbeat through your dress. Right here.” His thumb presses harder against my hip bone. “Racing.”
He’s not wrong. My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard he can probably feel it in my spine where his other hand rests.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s watching. You don’t want them to think something’s wrong.”
Threat wrapped in comfort. Smile or else.
So I smile.
Over his shoulder, I can see Alaina watching from across the room. Patricia Joyce. Maria Santos. All of them watching. All of them helpless.
Three years of evidence. And now me.
I close my eyes. Let Marcus lead. Let him think he’s won.
The music swells. Marcus spins me. I follow perfectly.
“When I went to pick you up, you weren’t there.” His tone is light but there’s an edge underneath. “I went all the way to Fishtown.”
All the way to Fishtown. Like it’s Siberia. It’s twenty minutes.
