His teeth graze my bottom lip, and he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You're mine now, little lamb. There’s no hiding.”
“I’m not hiding…anymore.”
“Good.”
His forehead presses to mine, breathless, tense, trembling with emotion. “Because I swear to God, if they ever try to take you from me?—”
“They won’t.”
He doesn’t reply. But his eyes say everything, that if they did, he’d burn the world to ashes before letting them win.
As the music ends, the final note echoing like a warning, we don’t move.
The dance might be over.
I’m still breathless from the kiss.
The kind that makes your bones ache and your skin hum. The kind that says this is it, you’ve crossed the line and there’s no going back.
Matteo’s hand is warm on my lower back, fingers splayed possessively as he moves us through the second dance. This one is softer, slower. We move in rhythm with each other, laughing beneath our breath, our bodies fluid like the song was written just for us.
“I didn’t know you could smile like that, you look beautiful,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get used to it.”
He chuckles, lips brushing my temple.
For a few stolen seconds, the rest of the world dissolves.
But then something feels different in his touch.
It’s subtle at first. The tightening of his jaw. The way his grip on my waist firms just enough to make me look up.
His eyes are scanning the crowd now, sharp and calculating, no longer looking at me, but through everyone else.
“Smile, don’t—” He coughs, and I try to take a step back but he holds me there. “Don’t move.” His voice is hard, but his whole body is tense. Yet he has a smile on his face, as we continue to dance.
Before I can reply, he leans in, lips brushing my ear, voice a breath of smoke and steel.
“Stay calm and smile.” His voice is breaking as he talks.
The warning rattles through me like ice water. I force my lips into a soft curve.
“What is it?” I whisper, my voice dry. I look up at him, and he closes his eyes for a moment and takes in a deep breath. He’s scaring me.
“We’re leaving the center,” he says smoothly, guiding us toward the edge of the ballroom, steps still in time with the music, like nothing is wrong.
But something is wrong.
I feel it.
“Milo,” he says suddenly.
I blink, and his brother is there, walking beside us like he’s always been part of the dance.
“I’ve been stabbed,” Matteo says under his breath.
My blood freezes.
