lust in their eyes. “We’re going to dance.”
Brigit misses a step, and I catch her, turning her toward the dance floor I’ve had set up at one end of the room. Music starts as I do it. The man who plays it over the in-house sound system has been paid to watch for opportune moments, like this one. It’s fifteen minutes past midnight. “We’re not dancing,” she says.
“We are.”
“No.”
“We’re already dancing.”
The fact of the matter is that I’m a good dancer. My father taught me to kill people, yes. He especially focused on killing prostitutes and other women who had crossed the wrong man. But he liked a little discretion. He liked being able to blend in. And blending in, on occasion, means being a good dancer. It’s possible to go places in the world while being a clumsy asshole, but it’s better to be just an asshole. Grace has its moments.
Brigit’s face goes red, and she seems to realize suddenly that we are dancing. That I have a hand on the small of her back and her other hand in perfect position. That I’m turning her this way and that, letting the light shine on her from every direction.
So they can see what they’re going to buy. And so I can see the men in the crowd.
It’s not for me.
It’s not because I’m entranced with the way she looks tonight. It’s not because I’m so desperate for her that I’d do anything to taste her right now. It’s not because I want her in my bed, and only in my bed, for the rest of her life. None of that is possible. None of that will ever be possible.
“What are you thinking of?”
I laugh. “What do you mean?”
“Your eyes...” Brigit frowns. “You looked like you were thinking of something unbearably sad.”
“Ah.” I spin her around, taking her smoothly across the floor, and another couple joins us, then another. “Nothing is unbearably sad, sweetheart. Emotions are such fleeting things.”
“Are they?”
“You’re standing here right now, aren’t you?” We turn again, and again. Brigit’s a good dancer too. She’s had some practice at some point in her life, or else she’s skilled at following. Not every woman is. Some of them want to lead so badly that they’ll make fools of themselves to do it. “Some feeling must have driven you here. I told you to stay in my bed. Tell me, Brigit. What was it?”
Famous last words.
25
Brigit
He’s just so good at dancing.
He’s so comfortable in his body, so beautiful in his suit, so graceful. I saw him fight five men mere hours ago. I saw him rub his knuckles and then walk away, head up, like nothing happened. He’s a dangerous man. But here, on the dance floor, he looks like a dream. Light in his eyes, in his hair. He always looks like he’s standing in the sun.
And the low question, the play of a smile on his lips, it does me in. The full weight of those fleeting emotions comes down hard on my heart, and all the plans I had for keeping my chin up and holding myself together tonight shatter and break. He’s asking me, in that voice of his, the one that makes me feel drunk on the sound.
Maybe this night isn’t a nightmare.
Maybe it is magic.
“It wasn’t a feeling,” I point out. “It was Reya.”
He narrows his eyes. “Was it?”
Mistake—mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have pretended that she had nothing to do with it. Keep dancing. “I thought you sent her.”
“You didn’t think. Otherwise, you’d have stayed in bed, where I put you.” Such light words, such little knives.
“She came to get me.” I keep myself upright in his arms, barely. “And no, I didn’t fight her on it. I wanted—” Zeus twirls me out away from him, and it’s effortless. I don’t have to worry that he’s going to drop me. I don’t have to worry about losing my footing. I just do, and he brings me back to my place without his smile faltering. “I wanted to be near you,” I say simply, finally.
Another low laugh. “You and everyone else in this room.”
“No, I mean it.” There are more people around us now, but none of them are as good as he is at dancing. “That was the feeling that made me come here tonight. I wanted to be with you.” I can’t stop myself. “I care about you. So much.”
He stops dead in the middle of the dance floor,