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He walks me through the exit and into the hall beyond, where the music is only a heartbeat through the walls and the crowd is a blur of masks behind the glass. Nobody follows. Nobody would dare.
“Where to, Bella?” he asks.
“Somewhere quiet, before I do something reckless right here.”
His jaw clenches, hard, once. His eyes go dark behind the mask, and for a second he doesn’t move at all, like a man holding something back with both hands.
Whatever I just did to him, he doesn’t trust himself to answer it here.
And I just walked into a penthouse suite with a man whose name I don’t know.
Velvet walls. Black orchids. A chandelier that probably cost more than everything I’ve ever owned. Floor-to-ceiling windows, every one of them blacked out. The whole city is out there, and none of it can see in.
All I can think about is the six feet of carpet between us, and how little time it would take to cross it, and what his hands would do once I did.
He speaks first.
“I don’t get involved at these events.” He holds my gaze. “Tonight I did.”
That’s all. No excuse. No speech. Somehow it hits harder than one would.
I tell myself to stay sharp. Instead, I’m watching his mouth shape the words and imagining it on my throat.
“I’ve been watching you all night, dolcezza.” A pause, heavy as a hand. “You gave back money you needed. You walked into a lion for a girl you barely know. You made Santini bleed in front of everyone he wanted to impress.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “That’s rare in my world.”
Rare. Not flattery. A verdict. My pulse kicks, hard.
“It also made you a target.” His voice drops. “By morning, half that room will be trying to find out who’s under that rabbit mask.”
Something in me cools a degree. I hadn’t thought that far.
He did.
His eyes go to my hand. “So I gave them something else to remember.”
I look down at the ring.
“Everyone in that room knows not to touch what’s mine.”
Two words. What’s mine. Something in me goes molten. Not a gift, then. A shield. I should hate how much I like the sound of it.
I look for the catch.
“Men like you don’t do anything without expecting something back.”
“I don’t want your gratitude.”
“Good. Men who want gratitude always seem to think thankful means available.”
That earns me a smile. Small. Real. Gone fast. I feel it like a prize.
“And this dress. The whole room had opinions about it.” He takes one step closer. “Not one of them touched you.”
Another step.
“You didn’t shrink. You didn’t wait to be saved. You stood up.”
My breath goes shallow. He’s describing me like he’s reading a file, and every word is true.
