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A signet ring.

The kind that probably opens doors. Literal and metaphorical.

An idea forms, reckless and dangerous and absolutely necessary.

"You know what?" I say, stepping closer, letting my body brush against his in a way that makes his pupils dilate. "Maybe we could work something out."

"Yeah?" His hand finds my waist, proprietary and presumptuous.

"Yeah." I lean up on my toes, letting my lips hover near his ear. "But not here. Too many people."

I feel him tense with interest, his grip tightening slightly. "I know a place."

"I bet you do." I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, letting my hand trail down his chest. "Give me five minutes? I need to freshen up first."

His hand moves to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone in a gesture that probably looks tender from the outside but feels like ownership. "Don't make me wait too long."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

I extract myself from his grip with a practiced ease that comes from years of performing interest I don't feel, and head toward where I saw a hallway earlier. The moment I'm out of his line of sight, I lean against the wall and take a shaky breath.

Okay. Step one: get the ring. Step two: don't throw up from having James Harrington's hands on you. Step three: find whatever information this place is hiding.

I pull out my phone, pretending to check messages while actually using the camera to zoom in on a photo I managed to snap of James's hand. The ring is clearer in the image—gold, definitely, with what looks like a serpent coiled around a crown, and beneath it, small engraved letters I can just barely make out: V.O.

Veritas Order.

Bingo.

I'm sliding my phone back into the small clutch I brought—chosen specifically because it's large enough to hide a stolen ring—when movement catches my eye. Someone moving through the crowd with purpose, not the aimless drift of intoxicated guests but the focused movement of someone looking for something.

Or someone.

A man, tall and lean, wearing a simple black mask that covers the top half of his face. He's dressed differently from most of the people here—dark jeans, a black t-shirt, no expensive labels or flashy accessories. He looks... wrong. Out of place in the same way I probably do, like he's pretending to belong but doesn't quite sell it.

Our eyes meet across the room for a fraction of a second, and something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. Or just the acknowledgment that we're both here for reasons that have nothing to do with pleasure.

Then he's gone, disappearing down a corridor I hadn't noticed before.

Focus. Ring first. Mysterious stranger later.

I make my way back toward where I left James, and find him exactly where I expected—leaning against the bar, talking to another man I don't recognize. His posture is relaxed, confident, the body language of someone who's never had to worry about consequences.

I approach from behind, letting my hand slide around his waist as I press against his back. "Miss me?"

He turns, and the smile that spreads across his face is pure masculine satisfaction. "Always."

Gag me.

"Dance with me?" I ask, already pulling him toward the dance floor where the bodies are packed tight enough that personal space is a myth.

He follows without hesitation, and within seconds we're surrounded by the press of the crowd, the music loud enough to make conversation impossible. Perfect.

I move against him, letting the rhythm guide me, and his hands immediately find my hips. One song bleeds into another, and I gradually shift our position, turning so my back is to his chest, his arms around my waist.

And then I stumble.

Not much. Just enough that I have to catch myself against him, my hand gripping his left wrist for balance.