Page 84 of My Wedding Night Massacre

He turns, and our eyes meet.

And that same electric current from last night slams into me so hard I almost drop my champagne.

He doesn't look surprised. Doesn't look anything except... guarded. His expression remains the same, even more closed off, like seeing me here is a complication he didn't plan for.

Oh.

Most men would smile. Would take this as an invitation, a sign from the universe. But not him. He just watches me with those dark eyes, and there's something in them that looks almost like suspicion.

What the hell?

I should walk away. Should leave him alone, go mingle with the other guests, pretend last night never happened. But my body has other ideas.

Breathe, Aurora. Just breathe.

But I can't. Because he's walking toward me, and every step he takes makes my pulse race faster, makes the space between my legs throb with want, makes me forget every reason this is a terrible idea.

"We meet again." His voice. damn, his voice. It's exactly what I imagined last night when my hand was between my legs—gravel and whiskey and sin.

"Small world," I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

"Or fate." He stops close enough that I can smell him—expensive cologne, something dark and woodsy with a hint of smoke. "Though I don't believe in fate."

"Neither do I."

"Liar."

The word hangs between us, a challenge. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I watch his jaw tighten like he's physically restraining himself from doing something.

Do it. Whatever you're thinking, just do it.

"But…" I take a sip of champagne, meet his eyes over the rim of the glass. "But I believe in second chances."

Something moves in his eyes. Not quite a smile, but close. "Do you."

“I most definitely do.”

He stares at me like I’m a puzzle he is intent on solving and I almost think he will say something.

"I'm Axel," he says instead.

"Aurora."

"Aurora." He repeats my name like he's tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. "It suits you."

"Does it?"

"Beautiful. Untouchable. A little dangerous." His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "Though I suspect the danger is more than a little."

Heat floods my face, my neck, lower. He's reading me like I'm an open book, and I should hate it. Should tell him to back off, stop looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour.

Instead, I walk towards a quieter part of the gallery and pretend to admire the works there.

"You don't know anything about me," I say, noticing he’d followed me.

"No." His eyes lock on mine. "But I'd like to."

"Why?"