The cool night air was a balm on my overheated skin.
The city sprawled below, a glittering tapestry of a million lives I knew nothing about. It was vast and anonymous and exactly what I needed.
“Quite the show in there. “
The voice came from the shadows to my left. My heart leaped into my throat.
Rhys stepped into the moonlight, the ember of a cigarette glowing between his fingers.
He’d shed his jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loosened. He looked rumpled, dangerous, and utterly out of place.
“I didn’t see you,” I said, my voice thin.
“You saw me,” he countered, his voice a low growl of smoke and whiskey. He took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes hooded. “You and Ken Doll were putting on a real clinic. Very touching. Is that the five-year plan getting a reboot?”
The venom in his tone was a slap. “It’s none of your business. “
“Isn’t it?” He took a step closer, and my body went on high alert. The vast balcony suddenly felt as small as that pantry. “He’s the *groom*, Ava. That’s your client .
After you practically vibrated out of your skin in that bakery, you’re going to stand there and tell me that waltz with another woman’s fiancé is what you want?”
His anger was different now. It wasn’t just teasing. It was justified.
“What I want is a life that isn’t. . . isn’t chaos,” I shot back, my voice trembling with an emotion I couldn’t name. “What I want is stability. Something you wouldn’t understand. “
He gave a short, humorless laugh, smoke curling from his lips. “You think *that’s* stability?” He gestured back toward the ballroom.
“That’s a life sentence, Ava. A beautifully decorated prison where you’re not allowed to get frosting on your dress. And you’re not even the guest, you’re the warden. “
He flicked the cigarette over the railing, a tiny orange spark arcing into the darkness. And then he was moving.
He closed the distance between us in two long strides, backing me up against the cold stone of the balustrade.
He didn’t touch me, not yet, but the heat rolling off his body was a tangible force.
“You’re scared,” he whispered, his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, smell the intoxicating mix of his skin, the night air, and something uniquely, wantonly *him*.
“I’m not scared of you,” I breathed, a lie so blatant it was laughable.
His lips quirked into a smirk that was all predator. “No. You’re not scared of me. You’re scared of *this*. ”
His hand came up, but instead of grabbing me, his fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back.
His other hand planted on the stone next to my hip, caging me in. The dance with Marcus had been a gentle guidance.
This was a claiming.
“Don’t,” I whispered, but the word had no conviction. It was a puff of air, a token protest from a part of my brain that was rapidly shutting down.
“Too late,” he growled.