Page 158 of Captive Ruin

“Well that depends, husband dear. Do you want me to flash the room? What will you do to all the men who stare?”

He goes still behind me. I glance in the mirror, and his jaw is clenched, lips pursed in a scowl. He looks terrifying, but it’s not directed at me. It’s directed at phantom men that might spend the last few seconds of their lives regretting how their eyes were drawn to an alluring dress.

Is it wrong to get a thrill from his possessiveness?

“I know it’s a Company event,” I say, giving that word the same subtle emphasis he does, “but I still think they’ll throw you out after the fourth murder.”

“I want to dance with you,” he says at last, his fingers resuming their task. “You’ll just have to dance close.”

“And if I say no?” I mean it literally, I think. But maybe I’m pushing, too. The dress, his proximity, the sexiness of it all, being bare beneath it. The excitement of going out. Feelings are stirring again, and I want them. I don’t like being dead to the world, to myself, to everyone and everything around me.

“Then I’ll get down on one knee and beg until you say yes.”

My breath catches, and I have to make a conscious effort not to bite at my lip for fear of messing up my makeup. Control, composure, I tell myself. I can’t get aroused, not when I’m naked beneath this thing.

“I’ll dance with you,” I say quickly. “Please try not to turn me on too much.”

He chuckles, low in his throat, and that pulls at me too. “Is it wrong to want to dance with you so much that your thighs are slick for me, glistening with every step?”

“Jesus, Van Wyk—”

“Lukas.”

“—you can’t have it both ways. Either you’re busy dancing with me, or you kill everyone else. Which way is this evening going to go?”

“I think I’ll wing it,” he murmurs, giving my ass a slap. “You’re done.”

What Van Wyk failed to mention is that it wasn’t a normal dance, like a club. Oh no. It’s a goddamn ballroom, complete with high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, marble everywhere, and a chamber orchestra playing classical.

Couples glide across the dance floor with graceful turns and steps I don’t even know, let alone could ever perform.

I pull on his arm, nodding to them subtly. “I can’t do that.”

“They’re just showing off, don’t worry. There are other dances that are much easier.”

“Can you do that?”

He regards the dancers for a moment. “Foxtrot? It’s been a few years, but yes. It happens to be one of my favorites.”

We’re learning so much about each other. So he dances. No wonder he was so keen for me to say yes. But he’s going to be disappointed; my limit is lifting my arms and swaying to the beat. Up until now, it’s always been enough.

Inadequate doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. Why is he interested in me, anyway?

Except he’s not, I remind myself. This is a marriage of convenience.

That’s thin. It wasn’t convenience when he broke into my apartment, or filled it with cameras.

“Dance with someone else, then,” I say lightly, covering my consternation. “I don’t want you to miss out.”

He stops, turning to me. “I won’t. There is no one here I’m even remotely interested in.” He says it like he means it, voice husky with his intensity. “Why would I be, when I’ve married the most beautiful and fiercest woman in the room?”

Beautiful is nice, but there are many here who qualify. But fiercest? Is that really how he sees me?

“Dressed like this, I feel about as fierce as a jewel on a velvet cushion.”

“Dressed like that, Little Stray, you’re as fierce as a lioness on the hunt.”

“Don’t lions have many lionesses?”