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He was coming for me.
The soles of his boots struck the floor as he sauntered towards me, the sound performing a sort of countdown as he closed the distance between us. My heartbeat roared in my ears—run, run, run!
When he was just about to reach me, on instinct, I reared back.
His shadows broke around him, and suddenly, my back was pressing against a towering wall of male. Notes of amber and sandalwood washed over me—the smell of him unreasonably delicious. Large hands gently clasped my shoulders. Slowly, they slid down the length of my arms, the heat of them scalding against my skin. Cool air waked in his touch, the combination of hot and cold electrifying my sensitive nerves. His hand grabbed mine, his other one pressing against my lower back as he pushed me further away from him. Using our connected hands, he swirled me, pulling me back into him in one swift, skillful move. I landed with a thump against him, my hand smacking against his steel-packed chest.
I looked up to find him peering down at me.
Sharp, thick, black brows framed obsidian eyes, eyes that held the slightest hint of amusement and something else—something that made me feel as if I was standing naked before him, as if he could see right through me.
Flustered, I quickly moved my hand from his chest to his arm. With iron forged in my voice, I asked, “Shall we get this over with?”
A teasing smile played at his broad lips. “This will never be over between us.”
“There is no us,” I answered, extending a pointed toe while ignoring the last part of his sentence.
His hand pressed against the small of my back, spanning the width of it, keeping me tethered to him. He tipped his head to the side predatorily. “There might not be an us, but there issomethingbetween us. I know you feel it too.”
Before I could argue, he whisked me into the dance. He led, acting as the puppeteer, his body the master and I the puppet, forced to move wherever he guided me to.
I had danced with hundreds of men before, but I had never danced with Death. Now, I understood the difference. Dancing with other males was stiff and formal.
But this?
It felt sensual. Intimate. Personal.
I didn’t need to think, because he was the hand and I the brush, and together, we painted the floor.
Every pair of eyes in this ballroom was fixed on us. Watching. Judging the way he made me move as if we were doing more than just dancing, as if we were publicly consummating a marriage. And I hated the bastard for it because judging by the smirk on his lips, he damn well knew what he was doing.
“Tell me, Little Goddess, did he apologize for what he did to you? How did that conversation go exactly?” he asked, his voice a deep, dark rumble.
I met his gaze, reading the fuckery written within them. I wasn’t about to play his game, but he could damn well play mine.
“Why haven’t you released him?” I asked, ignoring what he said.
“Answer my question first.”
“Yes, he apologized, and I have forgiven him.”
“Liar,” he purred in my ear.
I ignored his goading. “It is your turn to answer my question now.”
“No.”
The space between my brows crinkled in frustration. “You just said you would.”
“I changed my mind.”
Stupid insufferable male,I thought to myself, all the while ignoring the way our bodies moved in perfect rhythm with one another’s—as if we had done this hundreds of times before.
“Why did you call the war off?” I asked, careful to keep my voice down.
“I did it for you,” he said, the rich cadence of his voice striking a sensual low.
He dipped me, stretching my torso before him like his own private feast. I could feel his eyes roam over me, taking me in. The backs of his fingers grazed the length of my neck, sliding downwards. I shivered under his touch.
