DAPHNE
"What are you doing?" I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ezekiel's lips curl into the faintest smirk, his eyes never leaving mine. "Dancing." He replies smoothly, as if we're not wrapped in something far more heavier than a waltz.
"This doesn't feel like dancing." I murmur, my breath hitching as his hand tightens at my waist.
"No?" He says, his voice is edged with something dangerous. "Then maybe you should stop pretending you hate it."
"I'm not pretending." I grit out, lifting my chin stubbornly. "I hate it."
His eyes flicker, amused, maybe intrigued, but he doesn't let go. If anything, he pulls me closer, as if daring me to say it again.
My breathing grows heavier, my pulse racing with every second that passes. There's something in his grey eyes, something I can't
