“No,” Luca lets out a short laugh, lifting both hands in surrender, but there is amusement in his eyes that I do not appreciate. “I’m a man with eyes, and if this wasn’t the princess you’d be telling me whether I could fuck her in the mouth, or the ass.”
My gaze returns to Rosalina, to the way the light catches in her hair like slices of gold, to the line of her throat as she turns. “If she was not the princess, I would still want her for myself.”
“You wouldn’t share?” Luca scoffs, his tone incredulous, and my attention shifts back to her just as she slips a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and starts toward us.
“Not at first,” I say evenly.
I already know how this works. If she comes to care for me, truly care for me, that affection will not stay contained. It never does. It will bleed outward, find Luca and Gabriel in time, because that is the blessing and the flaw between the three of us. When one of us is chosen, the others are never far behind. We are not built to be loved in pieces.
And if anyone is going to survive loving us, they will have to learn how to love all of us, but if I am honest with myself, then yes, I would prolong the inevitable as long as I could.
“Get out of my wife’s seat,” I snarl, looking at a smirking Luca’s face as she watches her approach us.
“You meanour wife,” Luca corrects, as if he knows something I don’t and he slides out of her chair.
I shoot him a look that promises consequence later, but he only laughs under his breath. He rises anyway, unhurried, and pulls her chair out with exaggerated courtesy. Rosalina pauses for half a second, her gaze flicking between us, uncertainty threading through her expression before Luca gestures smoothly for her to sit.
“For the lady,” he says, all charm and restraint, as if he hasn’t been provoking me for sport.
She cocks an eyebrow, a suspicious smile on her lips. “Thank you.”
She settles into the chair, champagne flute still in hand, the fabric of her dress whispering against the seat. Luca pushes her in with a careful hand at the back of the chair, respectful, controlled, and far too aware of my attention. Then he stepsaway without another word, leaving her at my side and me with the sudden, undeniable weight of her presence.
I turn to her, close enough now to catch the faint scent of her perfume, honeysuckle and rose.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were avoiding your husband,” I murmur low into the curve of her neck, and watch the goosebumps ripple across her skin.
She opens up a satin, white napkin and places it over her lap. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume my husband has two left feet.”
“Excuse me,” I scoff, watching as she continues to cut into the steak that was delivered almost fifteen minutes ago.
She chews a few times before swallowing and looking at me with an incredulous stare. “What?”
“Why would you assume that?” I whisper into her hair.
“Because I have not been hiding. I have been dancing and you have been sitting here like you’re King Midas,” she says, taking another slice of her steak in her mouth.
“I don't dance.”
“So I am correct,” she nods, taking a scoop of mashed potatoes. “You have two left feet.”
“That’s not what I said,” I reply, leaning closer, my mouth near her ear, my voice pitched just for her. “I said I don’t dance.”
“And I said,” she counters calmly, lifting her glass for a small sip of champagne, “that you have been sitting here glaring, instead of dancing.”
A corner of my mouth tugs upward despite myself. “Do I need to dance with you to get your full attention?”
Her eyes slide to mine, slow and assessing, a smile ghosting her lips. “Yes, and since you won’t dance then--”
I stand, offering one hand as the other unbuttons my suit jacket. “Come on, Rosa.”
She hesitates just long enough to make the possibility of refusal linger between us, a quiet challenge in the air, before her fingers slide into mine. The contact is soft but decisive, sending a subtle shock through me that tightens my hold as I rise and draw her gently from the chair. The orchestra shifts as if on instinct, the music flowing into something slower, richer, as though they had been waiting for this moment, for me to finally claim her hand and lead her onto the floor.
She expects stiffness, I think, maybe reluctance. Instead, I draw her close, my hand settling at her waist with an ease that surprises us both. She fits there naturally, her softness curving into me as if the space was always meant for her, the warmth of her body bleeding through silk and lace until it is all I can feel. The gentle swell of her hip beneath my palm grounds me.
“You lied,” she murmurs.
“I don’t lie, because I am a bad liar,” I answer, guiding her through the turn with practiced precision. “I said I don’t dance. I did not say I couldn’t.”
