Rosalie’s watching me with a suspicious glint. “Please tell me you’re not using him just to get into the Beaumont servers.”
“I’m not.” I lift my chin. “I really like him. He understands code. He can talk about it for hours. It’s … nice.”
“That is what one wants in a man,” Rosalie says dryly.
I glance across the room to where her man is standing—by the orchestra, arms crossed, watching her like she’s the only person in the room. Alexei Sokolov. Leader of the Russian mob. Pure, unfiltered danger in a tux. I’m honestly surprised the tux hasn’t grown sentient just trying to keep up with his raw energy. Black hair, obsidian eyes, and a body hardened by seven years in prison. When he and Rosalie decide to set the world on fire? It’ll burn. “It looks like your man wants you.”
She follows my gaze. Her lips curve. “He always wants me.”
And she sounds so damn happy.
I like that but wouldn’t have picked Alexei for her, not with the whole kills-people-professionally résumé, butthe man loves her. He’ll protect her against anything and anyone, and she needs that. I mean, who doesn’t? “You better go dance.”
“I think I will.” Rosalie leans down and presses a sweet kiss to my forehead. She smells like gardenias and something dangerously expensive. “Try to have some fun, Ella. We’ll go after your stepmother the second you’re ready. I promise.”
I have her support as well as Alana’s. And probably, even if reluctantly, their terrifying men. But this thing? This war? It’s between me and the woman who stole my birthright. “Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
Rosalie exhales, the sound soft but weighty, and then she turns and walks away with the kind of grace that could make statues weep. Heads turn as she glides across the floor toward Alexei.
I drain the rest of my champagne in one go, and the last bubbles tingle up my throat. Then I move—casual, nonchalant, totally-not-doing-anything-suspicious—toward the restrooms. When I get there, I veer right.
There’s an exit behind the hallway. Not many know about it, but I’ve studied the floor plan of this pavilion like it’s a level in a video game. It shouldn’t take me long to slip into the control tent, which has to be connected to one of the Beaumont mainframes. Everything’s networked. Always has been.
But just as I pass the last column, a voice cuts through the air—deep, dark, and so close I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Where are you going?”
I manage to turn just a little, keeping my expression flat.
Justice Beathach stands in front of me like a wall made of malice and sculpted bone structure. Looking down. Always looking way down. What is he, six foot four? Six five? He’s freakishly tall and infuriating about it.
I’m petite. Like, professional pixie height. And while I can fight, somewhat, size and strength still matter. A lot. “None of your damn business, Justice,” I snap, my spine going stiff, my fists clenching on instinct.
His chin lowers and an odd warmth slides through his eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
That’s it. That’s all he says.
“Excuse me?” I demand, already calculating if I can knee him in the balls and survive the attack.
He tilts his head slightly, watching me the way a hawk watches a field mouse who’s trying very hard not to look like prey.
I set my shoulders. One hand curls into a fist. I know I won’t do much damage, but I’ll aim strategically.
Then he smiles.
I’m not ready for that. The sight hits me like a sucker punch.
He’s handsome in a completely lethal way. The kind of man who definitely owns a dungeon and not in the cute romantic metaphor sense. No, this one’s probably got shackles bolted to the walls. “I think we’re going to dance, Ella Rendale.”
“I don’t think so,” I shoot back.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to. One arm slips around my waist like he’s done it a thousand times and lifts me against him like I weigh nothing, because apparently the laws of physics just surrender when Justice decides they should.
“What the hell—”
“Behave yourself,” he murmurs, his voice going low and sounding almost bored. “If you’re a good girl, we’ll just dance. If you’re bad, well, you’re going to moan as you dance.” With that, he carries,carries, me back through the pavilion like it’s no big deal. Through the crowd, past the chandeliers and the murmured gasps and the clink of crystal.
Right onto the bustling dance floor.
