“Come now, girl,” he says, chastising. “We’re all here for fun, right? Dinah and I are curious what’s underneath that overly demure dress of yours. A bit ill-mannered of you to cover up so much, no?”
Don’t punch the nobles, don’t punch the nobles, I chant to myself, even though I really, really want to slam my fist in this man’s face.
But thankfully, I don’t have to. I feel a presence behind me just before a warm, masculine hand touches my back.
Killian.
The nobleman’s face pales a little as he looks up in fear behind me. He bows, and then yanks his wife, confused, also into a bow, before dragging her back toward the crowd.
Turning with a smile, I look up into glowering dark eyes.
The smile withers on my lips.
It’s Stark. His glare could raise the shadows from the corners of the room and snuff out all the light.
I edge backwards, away from him, even as his hand is still on my back. He’s livid, and I’ve seen what this man can do when he’s pissed. I’d like to put as much distance between me and his bad mood as possible.
“What were you doing?” he growls, loudly enough that a couple of people around us shoot him worried looks.
“Considering homicide,” I mutter. He doesn’t respond so I say, “None of your business, actually. Thanks for the save, but it’s a ball and you’re making a scene, so…”
“You’re right. We need to keep talking and we’re drawing attention.” Stark’s hand closes around my wrist like an iron vise. “Dance with me.”
My thoughts stutter to a stop. I look at his hand, then back into his eyes.
Surely, I didn’t hear that right.
I find my voice. “No, thank y?—”
He yanks me onto the crowded dance floor. “Wasn’t a request, princess.”
I have no choice but to fall in line—the blaze of command in his eyes says he’s not going to let me go.
My heart is in my throat as he pulls me into his arms. His broad chest fills my vision and his musky, amber cologne tickles my nose.
We fall into step with disconcerting ease, moving together like we’ve been dance partners for years. He leads like he teaches—with immense force and precision. Even rusty as I am, I haveno trouble following. The press of Stark’s hand on my waist guides me unerringly, though it feels more like combat than dancing.
When that hand spreads possessively across my back and pulls me closer, I look up at him in shock.
What the fuck is happening right now?
His gaze is narrowed, and drops to my neck.
“Interesting necklace,” he says, voice pitched low, oddly intimate and antagonistic at once. “Something so opulent on a commoner might draw the wrong kind of attention. Where’d you get it?”
I brittle instantly. “I’m not a thief, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Stark’s lips pull into a cruel smile as he leans down to put his mouth next to my ear, hot breath gusting against my skin. “Well then, you might want to read up on the history of that kind of opal before you start parading it around.”
The fuck does that mean?
Before I can demand an explanation, a low, familiar voice interrupts.
“Pardon me. I’d like to cut in.”
I turn in surprise as our dance comes to an abrupt halt.
Killian stands an arm’s length away, his face a polite mask. But I know him all too well. When he’s angry, it comes out in a terrifying calm like this—just like it did when we were with the Nabber in the dungeon. I can see it in the clench of his fists, the tight pull of his smile, the way his eyes are currently skewering Stark.
