At least something's going right tonight.
I glance at Elle, wondering if she heard, but she's staring out at the room with the kind of detached focus people use when they're trying not to drown.
She looks beautiful. Painfully so. But utterly alone. No bridesmaids. No one tugging her in for last-minute hugs or tears or blessings. Not even her ice queen mother bothered to stick around after the ceremony.
Just her, alone in a room of people celebrating me.
That pisses me off more than it should.
Viktor appears at my other side, toasts done. "Your wife looks sad, Nikolai."
"She's not sad. She's overwhelmed."
"Take her for a dance." He says it like he's some kind of marriage therapist and not the reason half this room has body counts. "Women like that sort of thing."
I set my glass down and turn to Elle. Her eyes widen as I extend my hand.
"Dance with me?"
My voice comes out softer than I intend. She nods after a moment of hesitation, swallowing hard. Then she takes my hand with just enough pressure to say she's playing along,and just enough hesitation to let me know she's not sure why.
The room parts for us. Maybe we're royalty. Maybe they just don't want to get too close to a man who kills for peace and a woman who could gut you with a smile.
The music shifts to something slow. Something meant for foreheads to touch and promises to be made.
I hate this song.
I pull her in. One hand warm and low at the curve of her back, the other holding hers, fingers firm but not rough. She smells like trouble in a silk dress. Like gardenia and champagne and that hotel night I haven't managed to delete from my memory.
She's stiff at first. Not afraid. Just coiled. Like a spring or a threat.
"You can breathe," I murmur. "I'm not going to bite."
Her gaze flicks up, green and sharp. "That's not what I remember from our first meeting."
I laugh, and it shocks the hell out of both of us. "Fair enough."
Her posture changes. Her body starts to move with mine instead of bracing against it. She lets the rhythm in. Lets me in, just a fraction.
I guide her around the floor, and it's like we were made for this. Like our bodies know something we haven't signed paperwork for. She moves easily, elegantly, hips brushing mine with each turn. I feel it everywhere. Jaw. Spine. Lower.
We look good together. I can feel it in the way people stare.
"Your family knows how to throw a party," she says.
I glance around. Diamonds. Guns. Too many suits pretending they're not carrying. Wives pretending not to know.
"This isn't a party," I say. "It's a business meeting with cake."
That earns me a real smile. Small. But alive.
Then she says, "Where's your son?"
I blink. The question hits harder than it should. Not because it's offensive. Because she remembered. Because she cared enough to ask. I've spent years in rooms like this. No one ever asks about Pasha.
"With his nanny," I answer quietly. "I don't bring him to things like this."
She exhales. Not loud, but I feel it. Relief, warm and thick between us. "Good," she says. And I believe she means it.
