Chapter 73
The second I step into the ballroom, the world shifts.
Not in the poetic sense. Not in some tired, metaphorical way. I mean it iterally. The sounds around the room dim, the lighting that softly glows from the ceiling bends, and every heartbeat in here slows–all but mine.
And then–there she is. Harley.
It takes half a second to find her in the crowd, even though my eyes shouldn’t be able to pick out a single thread in this cacophony of silk and tailored arrogance. But she’s a scream of color in a room full of murmurs.
The dress is purple. Not just any purple–a goddamn sin–wrapped indigo storm. Velvet that catches the light like it has secrets, slashed at the shoulder, teasing bare skin in a way that makes every breath catch in my throat. The neckline dips just low enough to torment me, while the slit rides high on her thigh like a promise no one else should ever be allowed to witness.
And she wears it like she knows exactly what it does to the air around her
Her hair’s not pinned up or hidden away–it falls in soft, deliberate waves over one shoulder, catching the light like temptation dressed in luxury. It’s not trying to be elegant or rebellious–it just is. Like she knew the power it held and wore it anyway–unapologetic and impossible to look away from.
Her lipstick is a deep, moody red that shouldn’t work–but somehow, it wrecks me. It’s not just a color. It’s a statement. A challenge. It’s the kind of shade that belongs on slow sips of wine, on whispered threats, and on the skin of someone who’ll never forget the taste.
And her neck… God, her neck. It’s bare, exposed in a way that feels intimate and almost dangerous, like she’s daring someone to touch what she doesn’t realize she’s offering–a stretch of vulnerability wrapped in silky confidence. I want to press my mouth there, feel her pulse under my lips, and prove to the entire room that she’s not here alone. But I don’t move. I just burn.
My fangs ache.
She’s laughing next to the bar with her head slightly tilted back, with one hand curled loosely around a glass of something that isn’t me. There are men around her. Too many. Then one of them reaches for her hand.
And my vision blurs.
I take an instinctive step forward, but Griffin’s voice cuts through the red haze behind my eyes. “Thane,”
I don’t answer him. I can’t. Because the moment I see her fingers slip into the stranger’s palm, every cell in my body riots.
She doesn’t see me. She’s looking at the man in front of her–the one who just asked her to dance. And she nods, while smiling. That smile. The one she gave me in her living room, at the mini–golf course, in the fucking drive–in when she fell asleep against me like I could keep the
monsters away.
And she’s giving it to him now.
She walks away, hand in hand with a stranger, heading toward the dancefloor like my existence doesn’t burn beneath her skin the way hers brands every inch of mine.
“Thane,” Grillin says again, quieter now. He must see it in my posture–the way my hands have curled into fists, and how my jaw grinds so tightly I can hear my teeth creak. He steps in front of me like he thinks he can stop what’s coming.
But I sidestep him.
The floor parts for her, because, of course, it does. The crowd rearranges itself around her like the’s the axis they forgot they were meant to orbit. And the moment she turns just slightly, my breath stops completely.
The back of the dress is lower than I expected. Far lower. It dips between her shoulder blades all the way down to just above the swell of her perfectly curved backside, carving a line of exposed skin so flawless I want to tear the world apart for daring to look at her.
My chest tightens, every y ounce of composure I have left dangling by a thread made of blood and want and something darker. Possession? Hunger? That impossible thing I don’t have a name for, because nothing in my thousand years has ever come close?
1/2
Her movements are fluid and light. Carefree in a way I haven’t seen since I first laid eyes on her. As if this entire week didn’t gut her the way it did me. As if she’s not haunted by memories of our 48 hours together. As if I didn’t carve myself out of her life with surgical precision and leave her bleeding.
Grillin mutters something beside me, but I don’t catch it, because my eyes are locked on her. The man she’s dancing with pulls her a little closer and makes her laugh again when he whispers something in her ear. And my vision goes white.
She twirls once, the dress flaring around her legs like temptation incarnate. And when she comes to a stop, she stumbles into him briefly and barely, but it’s enough. And this time his hand settles at her lower back as they continue gliding over the polished floor.
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