If the night had a pulse, it throbbed on the rhythm of the song playing at that moment. The chandeliers glowed softer, the air thick with perfume, smell of wine, and unspoken rivalries of other dancers. They were being watched.
Raphael —the one with deep hazel eyes and that same unreadable calm that made her want to throw something—and maybe dream of kissing him again. His eyes locked in hers.
The orchestra struck up a melody. One she hadn’t heard in years.
It was their song. A beautiful ballad.
Her lips curved, slow and sure. “You wouldn’t,” she murmured under her breath.
Without a smile, he asked, “You still remember the steps?”
She nodded and let him guide her to the centre of the ballroom.
He had crossed the floor with that predatory grace only wolves possessed.
