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Jealousy feels a lot like rage. My neck is hot. The tips of my ears burn. My heart tries its best to beat its way out of my chest, and before I know it my feet are carrying me toward her. I don’t even say a word to excuse myself from Damon and Dahlia.
It only takes a few seconds to cross the room and reach Jazz. Guests part when I slice through them, watching me walk toward the woman in the red velvet dress. She hasn’t seen me yet, but she drops her colleague’s arm and a tiny bit of tension eases in my heart. I don’t want her touching that blond douchebag. Ever.
Then, Jazz turns.
If I thought I was ready for the assault of her gaze, I was wrong. She looks at me with a neutral expression, but her eyes gleam. Her hands hang by her sides, then move to clasp each other in front of her stomach. In just a moment, I take everything in, every detail about her.
The hair styled in loose, sleek waves. The makeup—berry lips, dark eyes. On anyone else, it would be garish and overwhelming. But Jazz wears it like she’s the royal, not me.
She inclines her head toward me, then flicks her eyes up to meet mine. “Your Highness.”
Tightness clenches low in my stomach. A lump forms in my throat, and it takes more effort than it should to squeeze out a few words. “Good evening, Miss Crawley.”
The blond man beside her turns to face me and bows. “Highness.”
My brows tug together, and I think I catch a whisper of a smile on Jazz’s face. She’s enjoying watching me squirm. She puts her hand on the man’s forearm, and I know it’s to torture me.
“Your Highness,” she says, eyes flashing. “Have you met Will Broderick?”
I hesitate.
“We met last year in Nord,” Will provides, dipping his chin.
“Of course,” I reply noncommittally.
In the corner of the room, a delicate string quartet starts to play. I want to get away from this sandy-haired oaf. Want to get Jazz as far as possible from him and as close as possible to me. So, turning on my best smile, I extend a hand toward her. “Dance with me.”
“Is that an order?”
I grin. “Yes.”
Jazz rolls her eyes, but the corners of her lips tug. She slips her palm against mine, sending a jolt of energy flowing up my arm. Her eyes crash to mine, and I know she feels it too. Together, we walk on the polished floors toward the center of the dance floor. Every step we take away from the Viking she came here with eases the tension in my chest.
“You shouldn’t be so obvious about it,” Jazz says, leaning toward me.
“About what?”
“Your hatred of Will.”
I throw her a glance, then immediately look away when I see the laughter in her eyes. “I don’t hate him.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Maybe I hate the way he was looking at you.” I spin around to face her, extending my arm beside us. She slides her hand into mine and rests her other hand on my opposite shoulder, waiting for me to place my hand on her hip. It’s…natural. We move together easily, as if there’s no resistance at all. As if we’re drawn together by some outside force.
When my fingers touch the velvet fabric at her hip, I let out a soft breath. She looks like a goddess in that gown, and I can feel everyone’s eyes on us. On her.
We dance slowly, eyes on each other. I lead her through the steps, racking my brain for something to say. I feel like a horny teen who can’t talk to his first crush, tongue turned to lead in my mouth. I’ve forgotten how to speak to a woman, which was the only thing I thought I was actually good at. If she were to move half a foot closer to me, she’d feel exactly what she does to me.
Jazz saves me when she speaks, her voice deliciously breathy. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For this.” She dips her head to gesture to the dress. “For the hair and makeup and the chance to come here. I don’t dress up very often. It’s…nice.”
“And here I thought you hated all this.”
“I do, but at least I get to see the gala for myself so I can tear it apart in the papers.” Her red lips curl into a grin, eyes flashing. “And I’m not too proud to admit I like feeling glamorous for a night.”
