“I know.”
“You keep saying that like it makes this better.”
“It does.”
His hand shifts lower, still proper enough that no one can accuse him of anything, improper enough that my body knows exactly what he means.
Of course he notices. “Are you embarrassed?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Yaromir.”
“You blush beautifully.”
I almost miss a step.
He catches me immediately, pulling me in with quiet strength. My hand tightens on his shoulder. Beneath the expensive fabric of his suit, he’s solid and warm and real.
I forget the auction, the gossip, the ring, the bargain. There’s only Yaromir’s hand on me and the way he looks at me, as if the whole room is allowed to stare because none of them can touch.
The thought makes my knees feel weak.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you know what I’m thinking.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
His mouth curves.
There. Almost a smile. It changes his face just enough to make my stomach tighten.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I should lie. I should say I’m thinking about Dmitri, or Katya, or the room full of people waiting for me to crack.
Instead, I look at his mouth for half a second too long.
His eyes darken.
The music continues around us, elegant and distant. We turn again, and this time his hand spreads more fully over my back, pulling me closer. My body follows before my pride can object.
I hate how natural it feels. I hate how my body seems to know him better than I do.
The dance changes without changing.
Still proper. Still public. But the air between us becomes hot and private.
Every step presses me closer. Every turn brushes my thigh against his. His scent reaches me, smoke and cedar and cold air, and my pulse starts beating in places it should not be beating in the middle of a crowded hall.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. I feel it like a touch.
