There are crowds of people dotted throughout the space, some talking quietly, others laughing, all dressed in their finest as cameras flash and people dance.
I’ve taken meds which have taken the edge off the pain in my hand making me feel a little lighter. No one mentions what happened, they ask me if I’m okay but that’s as far as it goes.
“Dance with me,” Malakai leans in.
“Not many people are dancing right now,” I point out.
“So?”
“Everyone will stare.”
“Please give me another pointless reason,” He deadpans.
I glance at the dance floor and try to tell myself why this is a bad idea but I can’t think of a single reason, so I slide my uninjured hand into his.
His eyes light up as he helps me to my feet and then he’s guiding me to the dance floor.
Hozier,Work song,plays softly over the speakers as Malakai draws me in close. I place my injured hand on his shoulder while my other rests in his, and his hand spreads across my spine, keeping me flush against him. His eyes are on me as he begins to move us to the music, his every step in beat to the song. The lyrics flow through me, slamming into me more and more as his eyes hold mine, never wavering.
We don’t speak as we dance, the attention is purely on the way we move, on the way our bodies talk and join, like they know, like it’s built somewhere deep inside of us to read the other. Nothing else matters right now, I don’t see the hundreds of other people surrounding us or the other bodies dancing. I only feelusas we dance, like the two of us are part of the same puzzle, pieces coming together to form an entire image.
A beautiful, messy painting built upon carnage, deception, and violence.
He holds me like I am precious, like I am the sun in his life and the way he looks at me completely devastates me.
“Olivia,” He rasps my name, the sound almost lost to the music.
“Don’t,” I warn.
I see him swallow and a touch of his hardness shuttersover his eyes, “Later, then.”
“Later,” I agree. Or never.
He finishes the song with me, his touch not changing despite the shift in our conversation and the hardness remaining in his eyes. I’m not ready to have such discussions with him. It’s just sex. Just a mutual loathing that manifested in some great fucking, but too much reflection has now ruined that.
This between us, it’s just a contract, that’s all marriage is. I have to ignore what I feel.
But no matter how much I say it in my head, I can’t get myself to agree to it.
Fuck, when did this get hard?
I pull out of his arms, “I need some air.”
He moves to come with me, but I shake my head, “Give me five minutes. I just need five.”
“Olivia,” He whispers.
“Please,” I breathe.
I can see he doesn’t want to, can see he is warring with himself, it’s all over his face but eventually, he dips his chin and lets me go. I flee, my heels eating up the space to the door. I feel him watching me the entire time, right until I slip out the door. There are a few guests mingling in the foyer and beyond the doors I see snow is falling. I don’t have a coat, so I change direction and head for the staff entrance behind the desk, slipping into the empty hall.
I press my back against the wall, close my eyes and let out a breath.
It was all the little things. The crusts on my bread, the need to know I’ve had water, had food. It was the forehead kisses and light touches, the smiles he threw me when I tried to piss him off. It’s the attention and care he provides, the softness I see in him when he’s trying to hide it behind a wall of violence.
It’s him in his entirety, the hard, brutal parts of him, the dominant possessive edges that have been softened by the way he cares for those close to him. It’s his laughter with the boys and his mischievous, playful grins.
Fuck.
