Page 195 of The Next Lie

“Self-aware, at least.”

His mouth almost moves. Then the music changes, and he turns me into the next step.

Nash dances like he does everything else: control first, elegance by accident. He does not sweep me around the floor. He places me where he wants me, guides without apology, watches the room over my shoulder.

I follow because fighting him here would be stupid.

Also because some part of me likes being handled by a man who would burn the ballroom down before letting the floor give way beneath me.

That is a concerning thought, so I leave it alone.

We make one slow turn near the edge of the dancers.

Then Delia appears. She does not cut in. That would be too normal. She steps into our path with a gold mask over her face and panic badly hidden in the pinched lines of her mouth.

“Nash,” she says.

He stops moving, his hand tightening at my back.

Delia looks at me. “I need to speak with you.”

“No,” Nash says.

I look up at him. “I can answer for myself.”

“You can. The answer is still no.”

Delia’s jaw tightens. “This is important.”

“Everything is important tonight,” Nash says.

Her gaze flicks past us. Toward Isabel. Toward two men standing near the chapel arch at the back of the ballroom. They wear formal black like everyone else, but the roses pinned to their lapels are the same deep red as the wax seal on the invitation.

Their attention is on Delia. Then on me. A cold line moves down my spine.

Delia leans closer, voice barely moving her lips. “If I wanted to hurt her, I already would have.”

Nash says nothing. Delia swallows. That’s what decides me. Not the words. The swallow.

My sister is afraid.

I step out of Nash’s hold. His hand catches my wrist.

“Nash.”

His eyes stay on Delia. “Where?”

“Chapel?”

One of the exits off the ballroom leads to a small chapel. It’s quiet, private—a good spot to talk.

“No,” Delia says too quickly.

Nash’s gaze sharpens.

She recovers, but not well enough. “The sidewalk out front. Come out in a few and take her home.”

“Visible?”