I circle her. The dress dips low at the back, exposing the line of her spine, the wings of her shoulder blades. She’s gained weight in two weeks—healthy weight—but she’s still delicate. Breakable.
“Every man in that room is going to want you tonight.”My hand settles on her bare back, and her skin is warm silk under my palm. “But you’re mine.”
I pull her close and kiss her thoroughly, enough to smudge her lipstick, but I don’t care.
When I pull back, her eyes are glazed. “Don’t forget that tonight.”
The ballroom is a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns. Chandeliers sparkle overhead, refracting across hundreds of faces—and over half of them turn when we walk in.
The whispers ripple through the crowd as we pass.
“That’s Cillian O’Rourke.”
“Who’s that with him?”
My hand never leaves Nora as I guide her through the crowd. She holds herself straight, chin up. Good girl. Stand tall. Don’t shrink. You belong here.
She does. Whether she believes it yet or not.
I introduce her a dozen times. “My wife, Nora.” The men linger on her neckline. The women catalog her jewelry, her shoes. I catch every glance, every calculation.
As a financier named Calloway compliments her dress, his gaze drops well below her collarbone. I step between them without a word, and Calloway remembers he has somewhere else to be.
“You’re scaring people,” Nora murmurs.
“Good.”
She almost smiles. I count it as a win.
At one point in the evening, I see Patrick Sullivan heading straight for us.
He’s in his mid-twenties and struts around with thekind of confidence bred from inherited money and zero consequences.
While a senator corners me with a handshake and a campaign pitch, Patrick asks Nora to dance. When she looks at me with a pleading look, I nod, not wanting to disappoint her.
Worst decision of the night.
The senator’s mouth keeps moving. I don’t hear a single word. My focus tracks Patrick’s hand on Nora’s waist, the way he leans in to speak against her ear, the way she holds herself stiff and rigid.
Then she flinches.
He said something that made her flinch.
I’m moving before the senator finishes his sentence. I tap Patrick’s shoulder mid-song. “I’m cutting in.”
“We’re mid-dance?—”
The look I give him could strip paint from walls. “I wasn’t asking.”
Patrick drops her hand and retreats without another word. The boy is smart enough to obey.
I pull Nora against me—one hand on her waist, the other folding around hers. She collapses into me, tension draining from her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing important.”
