Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 76

Chapter 76

The moment the music ends, Thane’s fingers drift away from mine like he’s peeling off something he doesn’t want to lose in a slow, reluctant retreat. He steps back, but it’s clear he doesn’t really want to. His jaw is ticking–tight, tense, like there’s something he hasn’t said, or something he’s still holding hostage behind those midnight eyes of his.

And maybe I’m still holding mine, too.

Before I can decide whether I want to bolt or throw myself at him again, Griffin appears beside us like a well–dressed poltergeist, practically materializing out of the ambient lighting and orchestral swell.

“Well, well, well,” he draws with a grin that could cut glass. “Look who just set the ballroom on fire and didn’t even stop to hand out marshmallows.”

I blink at him, the whiplash of his presence snapping me halfway back to earth. “T’d roll my eyes at you, but I think they’re still recovering.”

He gives me a dramatic how, one arm across his chest. “You’re welcome for the invitation, by the way”

Thane exhales sharply beside me–one of those frustrated sounds that’s more breath than voice. “Griffin.

Griffin lifts both palms like he’s caught mid–crime. “Relax, Bossman. I didn’t corrupt her into being here. I just gave her a dress and a car. The rest?” His gaze flicks between the two of us knowingly. “All you two.”

The growl that rises from Thane’s chest is barely audible, but it ripples through the space between us like heated lightning. His entire posture darkens, and I’m almost surprised the chandeliers above us don’t flicker.

I glance between them, my lips twitching despite myself. “Are you two always this charming at parties, or am I just lucky tonight?”

Griffin leans toward me and says in feigned machination, “He’s always grumpy! I’m the delightful one. Like red wine and regret–we balance each other out.”

Before Thane can fire off a comeback that probably involves blood or a letter of termination, a woman with a clipboard and headset appears at his side like clockwork. “Mr. Draeven? We’re ready for you at the front.

Thane’s shoulders stiffen. His eyes flick to me, then to Griffin, and then back again.

Griffin waves him off as he subtly steps closer to me. “Go make your speech. I’ll keep your lovely guest entertained. She already tolerates me, so I’m basically halfway to sainthood.”

Thane’s stare lingers on me, sharp and unreadable. It’s not wordless, not exactly, but layered with meaning I haven’t deciphered yet. Then he turns and walks away, cutting through the crowd with lethal grace, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Griffin watches him go, then casually hooks his arm through mine like we’ve been besties for years. “Come, my enchantress. Let’s go find our table before your ex–almost–boyfriend explodes a waiter for breathing near you.”

“I can walk,” I mutter, but I don’t shake him off. Not that I could, even if I wanted to. And part of me doesn’t

The ballroom is a carousel of glitter and shadow, light refracted through crystal and spun across every surface. The chandeliers above us–now fully lit–throw golden splinters of color across white linen, polished silver, and shimmering gowns. The scent of expensive perfume and candle wax lingers in the air, sweet and heady.

Around me, conversations bubble like champagne–clinking glasses, low laughter, political smiles. And yet, somehow…I’m not drowning. Not

completely.

Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the way Thane looked at me like I was the only thing grounding him in a room full of everything he’s supposed to want.

Griffin leads me to a long table near the front. Too close to the stage for comfort, but far enough that I don’t have to make awkward eye contact with the spotlight crowd.

“I feel like I should curtsy before sitting down,” I mutter as he pulls my chair out with practiced flair.

“Just try not to stab anyone with the salad fork,” he replies as he takes his seat beside me. “They get testy about that.”

It’s ridiculous, really, how the room falls silent without anyone asking it to. He hasn’t spoken yet. He hasn’t even moved. He just stands there, black–on–black, like the event manifested around him instead of the other way around.

He’s basically a living shadow with a pulse.

His voice cuts through the hush of the room, and it’s low, rich, and measured. Calm but unyielding, Velvet lined with something sharper.

Something inside my chest shifts. Just those few words, and I feel like I’m hearing him for the first time all over again.

He continues–welcoming donors and investors, delivering all the right lines to all the right people. It’s smooth and polished. Every syllable threaded through with authority.

There’s weight behind his words. Control. The kind that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command a room.

Griffin leans toward me and whispers, “He’s a lot, huh?”

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