He steps beside me again, offering me one of the glasses of wine he’s holding. His eyes sweep quickly over my flushed face, then flick to Richard, who flashed him a smile.
“Welcome back,” Richard says, as if he hadn’t just been flirting with me for the better part of thirty minutes. Not that I minded.
“I got pulled into another conversation,” Ambrose replies, “But it seems the two of you got on just fine.”
My face warms, even though I did nothing wrong, and Ambrose’s gaze lingers on me for a second too long.
“Come with me,” he says, then tosses a dismissive, “Excuse us,” to Richard.
Well, I guess that’s the end of that conversation.
Before I can ask where or why, he gently takes my hand and pulls me toward the center of the room. We weave through groups of masked guests in conversation, past tables covered with appetizers and wine, and toward the dance floor in the middle of the room.
Ambrose takes my wine glass from my hands and sets it beside his on a mostly empty table.
“What are we doing?”
He doesn’t answer until we’re in the middle of the room, directly beneath the chandelier, and he turns to face me, his hand still wrapped around mine. A few couples dance around us, lost in their own little worlds.
“Dance with me.”
I blink up at him. “Really? And how exactly does that help with whatever mysterious thing you’re supposed to be accomplishing tonight?”
He flashes me a sheepish grin. “It doesn’t. I’m just selfish, and I can pretend you’re mine, at least for tonight.”
The words hit me with more force than expected, pressing against the walls I keep carefully built up around my heart—the ones that are cracking and crumbling more each day. I hesitate only a second longer before placing my free hand in his, letting him guide the other to his shoulder.
He pulls me into him, and I can’t think of anything beside how close we are. The last time we were this close, he was holding a knife to my throat.
His hand on my waist is possessive, his fingers pressing through the fabric of my dress like he’s been waiting all night to touch me like this. His warm, woodsy scent envelops me, I’m aware ofeverything: the way the silk of my gown slides against his suit coat, the brush of my leg against his as we shift, the burn of his gaze when it finds mine. The way he’s so gentle yet entirely in control, leading me through the dance with a soft sort of dominance.
We sway in time with the music, and I try to keep my mind from wandering. If I close my eyes and forget about the circumstances that led me here, I can almost pretend I want this.
The rhythm pulls us into a trance, and everything else in the room disappears, like the world’s folded in around us. All that exists in this moment is the swell of the music and the press of his warm, strong body against mine.
For this brief, ephemeral moment, I allow myself to let go of all the fear and worry and resentment.
His words from moments ago echo in my head. “I can pretend you’re mine, at least for tonight.” They tug at something in my chest that I desperately try to ignore.
The slow melody fades and transitions into something more lively, and Ambrose pulls away a couple of inches tolook down at me. His eyes are dark with a range of conflicting emotions, though I can’t tell what. They seem to shift from affectionate to hurt to guarded in a fraction of a second.
My heart slams against my ribcage as he leans down and places a gentle kiss on the top of my head. It’s such a simple gesture, but it quickens my pulse as if I’ve just run a mile.
His gaze flicks up over my head toward the back of the room, and his expression hardens for a fraction of a second. It’s so quick that I could have imagined it, but I’ve become more attuned to his expressions over the last few weeks, so I don’t think that’s the case.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, my pet,” he murmurs. The nickname is spoken with such softness and affection this time that it doesn’t annoy me as much as it usually does. “Get some food, drink some wine, and wait for me in here, okay?”
I nod in agreement, though curiosity nags at me. He clearly has something to deal with tonight, but he still won’t tell me what. I follow him to the table of hors d’oevres at the edge of the grand ballroom, and once I’ve taken a small plate, Ambrose stalks across the room and out the back doors.
So dramatic.
Snagging another glass of wine from the servers, I take a seat at an empty table against the wall where I can face the room to people-watch.
It’s disconcerting to see so many people without having the ability to analyze their expressions through their masks.
I take my time eating and sipping my wine, but I frequently glance toward the back doors, hoping Ambrose will stride through them at any moment. Eventually, I give up and instead search for Richard in the crowd, though that also feels futile given the sheer number of men dressed so similarly to him.
Loneliness creeps in the longer I sit, and the emotional whiplash of the last few days is, once again, making it impossible to relax.
