I should walk away. Asap!
The moment his fingers skim down my spine, a shiver follows, and I should turn, curtsy, and
disappear back into the sea of masked strangers. I should remind myself of duty, of
responsibility, of the weight that rests so heavily on my shoulders.
But I don't.
My fiancé is literally in the same room and I don't care.
Because his touch lingers like a secret. His scent—smoke and pine—wraps around me,
anchoring me in place.
"You're running away, kitten," he murmurs, stepping closer. "Why?"
I glance up, my mask shielding most of my face, but I know he sees the conflict in my eyes. He
sees everything. His mask is silver, intricate, but it does nothing to hide the sharpness of his
cheekbones, the dangerous curve of his smirk.
"I'm not running." The lie is weak, my voice breathless.
He hums, amused, his fingers trailing just below the strap of my dress. A tease. A warning.
"Then why do you look like you're about to bolt?"
The ballroom is a blur of color and movement behind us, the music swelling into something slow
and decadent, a melody meant for whispered sins.
He offers his hand. "Dance with me."
I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But something about the way he watches me, like he already
knows I'll say yes, makes my pulse quicken.
And so I do.
He pulls me in, my body flush against his, and I feel him—solid, warm, impossibly steady. His
hands settle at my waist, a little too firm, a little too knowing.
"You're tense," he notes. "Let go."
I swallow, my fingers tightening against his shoulder. "I don't know how." I confess.
His head dips, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and I swear my knees nearly give out. "Let me
teach you."
And gods, does he.
He moves like he was made for this, slow and deliberate, every step laced with something
unspoken. It's intoxicating. The way he guides me, the way his hands skim my skin just enough
to make me ache for more.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remind myself that I have a fiancé. That I have a future
Luna title to uphold.
But when he spins me, pressing my back against his chest, his fingers curling around my waist
like a silent promise, that voice in my head goes quiet.
"Who are you?" I whisper, my breath unsteady.
His lips brush my temple, dangerously close. "Someone you shouldn't want."
Too late.
The music swells, and I swear the world narrows to just this—his hands, his breath, the
unbearable heat between us.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his grip tightening. "Tell me to let you go."
I should.
I don't.
He knows I wouldn't.
Instead, I tilt my head just enough for my lips to graze his jaw. A mistake. A declaration.
A surrender.
His breath catches. Just for a second.
Then, his hand slips lower, fingers pressing into my hip as he pulls me closer.
"I knew it," he says, voice like silk and sin.
"Knew what?"
His lips ghost over my pulse, his answer sending a violent shiver through me.
"That you like being ruined."
"I–" I try to speak.
"Come on..let's go."
We don't speak as he leads me away from the ballroom, down dimly lit corridors where no one
dares wander. I should be terrified of how easily I follow.
He presses me against the cold stone wall before I can think, his body caging mine in, his
breath hot against my throat. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs.
"I don't even know your name," I whisper.
He smirks, tracing the edge of my mask with a single finger. "Would that make a difference?"
It should.
But when his lips brush my jaw—so lightly, so devastatingly—my thoughts splinter.
"You could be dangerous," I breathe.
His thumb traces my bottom lip. "And you don't care."
He wasn't lying. I don't.
I wasn't thinking properly any longer. I didn't even mind if someone randomly saw me.
Especially not when his mouth finally finds mine, claiming, demanding. Not when his hands grip
my hips, pulling me flush against him. Not when heat pools in my stomach, threatening to
swallow me whole.
His kiss is the kind that unravels, the kind that burns. The kind I know I'll taste for the rest of my
life.
When we break apart, my lips are swollen, my breath uneven. He studies me, his storm-gray
eyes dark with something I can't name.
Something dangerous.
"Leave now," he murmurs, voice rough. "Before it's too late."
I should.
I really should.
But I don't.
Because my hands are already fisting in his shirt, pulling him back to me.
And when he lifts me effortlessly, carrying me deeper into the shadows, I know—
There is no turning back.