There’s a man standing at the edge of the dance floor. He’s got a glass of bourbon in his grip, but his eyes are on me. Even from this distance, I know he can see the way I wince when the Earl of Toe-Crushing lives up to his nickname once more.
“So sorry, so sorry…”
I open my mouth on auto-pilot, prepared to accept his most recent apology, but the words evaporate from my tongue. I can’t speak, can’t even breathe. Every fiber in my being is fully occupied, watching as Carter slowly drains the bourbon from his glass, discards it on a nearby table, and steps out onto the floor. There’s a darkly determined look on his face as he crosses toward us, cutting a path through the sea of swirling couples without ever removing his eyes from mine.
He moves like a predator, all smooth muscle and lithe strength in an immaculately-tailored tuxedo. For once, his hair is pushed back from his face — styled sleekly with pomade, it gleams a lustrous black beneath the chandelier light. The effect is breath-stealing; I feel the air physically leave my lungs as I take in the sight of his sharp cheekbones on full display. The blade-like angles of his face cut through me with a sharpness I register in every square inch of my soul.
Holy.
Shit.
My feet go still and the earl stumbles off balance, his hand falling away from my lower back. I don’t even bother apologizing as he attempts to right himself. I don’t even glance his way. I can’t look away from Carter as he comes to a stop beside us. His dark brows are pulled inward. His eyes are on mine.
“Can I cut in?”
He doesn’t wait for permission. He simply steps into our space, slides his arms around my body, and tugs me out of the earl’s fumbling hold. My lips part on a gasp as my body collides briefly with the hard planes of his chest. I press them firmly together as my right hand interlaces with his, my left sliding up to rest lightly on his shoulder.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss as we begin to move.
“Just being a good brother.” He pauses meaningfully, eyes glittering with leashed violence — at me, at our situation, at the whole damn world. “Saving my sister from permanent foot damage.”
“Carter…”
“You’d rather I left you to that great oaf?” His eyes narrow. “Fine. I’m sure I can call him back—”
“Don’t you dare,” I snap.
He smirks.
I blow out an exasperated sigh and give myself over to the dance. And it’s strange — we’re surrounded by hundreds of people but, somehow, in the circle of his arms, I’m able to convince myself it’s just the two of us. A dance all our own, without regret or repercussion.
We move together flawlessly — miles more in sync than even my most accomplished suitors. It’s as though my body recognizes his, as though he knows every step I’m going to make before it happens. As the waltz progresses, our spins and turns bringing our bodies closer and closer, the sliver of air between our faces begins to simmer with so much tension, it’s hard to breathe properly. His hand tightens on my waist, flexing against the gold fabric of my dress, and I know he feels it, too.
I just hope no one watching from the crowd can see the way my pulse is pounding, can sense the slight hitch in my breath whenever I pull a shallow gulp of air into my lungs.
Just two siblings, sharing a celebratory dance.
Totally innocent.
His face is set in a polite mask, but his eyes — they singe me like a fiery brand. He hasn’t looked at me like this since the night we crossed an unspeakable boundary, back at the Lockwood Estate. I worry as soon as this dance ends, he’ll never look at me like that again. That, as soon as the notes fade into silence, he’ll throw that wall back into place — the one made of callous indifference, that’s so terribly effective at shutting me out.
Time is running short. Each slide of the violin bow against its strings carries us one note closer to the end of this moment. The end ofus.So, before I can stop myself, before I can remember the reason why those careful walls exist between us in the first place… I ask a reckless question. A question that’s been killing me each night as I lie in bed, waiting for a bluetooth chime that never comes.
“The song.” My throat spasms. “Why?”
The final notes play out, and our steps taper off into stillness. He still hasn’t given me an answer. In my peripherals, I sense couples around us pulling apart, exiting the dance floor in the brief interlude between songs… but we don’t move. Neither of us is ready to let go. Because we both know, the moment we do…
It’s over.
“Why?” I beg, a break in my voice.
He stares at me with his jaw clenched tight for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer. When he finally speaks, his tone is carefully stripped of all emotion.
“Because the only thing I hated more than seeing you with him… was making you cry over me.”
His words hit me like a physical punch. My hands drop away from him. My eyes are full of tears when I shake my head and whisper shakily, “Then you’d better look away.”
The last thing I see before I turn and race off the dance floor is Carter’s face, crumbling with defeat and despair. My feet don’t slow as I brush past several waiting suitors, eager to claim my next dance. The facade I’ve kept in place all evening is unraveling with an alacrity that scares me. If I’m going to hold myself together, I need air that doesn’t smell like bourbon, spice, and smoke. I need space that’s not thrumming with acute anguish. I need time enough to forget the feeling of forbidden hands on my skin.