Chapter 3
1431 Words
Chapter 3: The Game Begins
Florence's POV
Conan's hand is still wrapped around mine, firm and steady like an anchor. His silver-gray eyes lock on mine with a dangerous calm, as if he’s daring me to back out. But I don’t. I’ve already come too far to run now.
“First things first,” I say, pulling my hand back and crossing my arms. “If we’re doing this, we need to make it convincing.”
“Convincing?” he repeats, tilting his head like he’s amused.
“Yes, convincing.” I glance around the ballroom. People are still dancing, still laughing, still caught up in their little perfect worlds. None of them know that, on this very deck, my entire world just collapsed. “If George is going to believe this, we can’t just stand next to each other and hope he connects the dots. We have to sell it.”
Conan’s grin is slow, lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “And how do you plan to do that, Florence?” He says my name like it’s a secret only he knows.
“Simple,” I say, stepping closer, close enough to smell the faint hint of cedar and something wild on him. “We give him a show.”
His grin widens. “You’re full of surprises.”
“You have no idea.” I glance toward the dance floor. “You know how to dance, Mr. Alpha Male?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Careful, Florence. Ask me to dance, and I might just make you fall for me.”
“Trust me, wolf boy,” I say with a smirk, “I’m the one doing the leading.”
He chuckles, a deep, rich sound that makes my heart do something stupid in my chest. He holds out a hand. “Lead the way, then.”
I hesitate for a moment, glancing toward the far end of the ballroom. I spot George near the buffet table, laughing with some guy I don’t recognize. Of course, he’s fine. Of course, he’s laughing. My jaw tightens.
“Don’t just stand there,” Conan says, his eyes flicking toward George. “He’s watching.”
My head snaps back to Conan. “What?”
“He’s watching you,” Conan says, leaning in like he’s about to tell me a secret. His voice is low, almost a purr. “If you want to make him burn, now’s your chance.”
I glance at George again, and sure enough, his gaze is on me. His smile fades just a little, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing. I feel a flicker of satisfaction. Good. Watch me.
I slip my hand into Conan’s. “Let’s dance.”
---
The music changes as we step onto the floor. A slow, sensual rhythm drifts from the band, filling the room with warmth and tension. Conan doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me in, one hand on my waist, the other cradling my hand.
“Bold move,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear.
“Keep up,” I whisper back, tilting my head to meet his gaze.
He chuckles again, his eyes flashing with something wild and untamed. Wolf eyes, I think randomly, and then we’re moving. His steps are smooth, controlled, and he’s strong — stronger than I expected. Every movement feels deliberate, like he’s in complete control of not just himself but me too.
I’m not used to being led. But somehow, I don’t mind it.
“You’re good at this,” I admit, letting him spin me in a slow, effortless turn.
“Good at everything, sweetheart,” he replies, his grin sharp and cocky.
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. The way he moves, the way he watches me like I’m the only thing in the room — it’s unnerving. It’s also... thrilling.
“George is staring,” Conan says, his voice low and smooth. “He’s trying to act like he’s not, but he is.”
I don’t look. I don’t have to. I can feel it. I smile to myself, leaning in closer to Conan, our faces so close I can see the faint stubble on his jaw.
“Jealous, you think?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Furious,” Conan says with certainty.
Good. He should be. He should feel it. He should feel every ounce of the pain he made me feel when I saw him with her.
“Twirl,” Conan says, his voice commanding.
I raise an eyebrow, but before I can say anything, he spins me out, one smooth, perfect motion that makes my dress flare around me. Gasps ripple through the crowd as eyes turn toward us, but I don’t care. My heart is racing, not from fear but from something far more dangerous — exhilaration.
He pulls me back in with a snap, catching me against his chest, our faces inches apart. Our breaths mingle. My heart is pounding so loud I swear he can hear it.
“Careful, Florence,” Conan says, his voice a low growl. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m a fast learner,” I reply, not breaking eye contact.
For a moment, it feels like the whole world narrows to just this — his eyes on mine, his hand firm on my waist, his breath warm against my cheek. I’m supposed to be thinking about George. About revenge. But in this moment, it’s not George I’m thinking about.
It’s him.
Dangerous.
---
After the dance, we move to a quieter corner of the deck. The cool night air bites at my skin, but I welcome it. The sea stretches out like a black, endless void, the stars scattered like broken glass across the sky.
I lean against the railing, my heart still beating faster than it should be. Conan stands next to me, his eyes on the water, hands in his pockets, quiet but not silent.
“You didn’t have to go that hard,” I say, tilting my head toward him.
“You wanted him to burn,” Conan replies, glancing at me. “He’s still burning.”
I glance back toward the ballroom windows. George is at the edge of the crowd, his arms folded, his face tight. Good. Let him think about what he lost.
“So, what now?” I ask, turning back to Conan. “We just walk around the ship holding hands and call it a day?”
“Not quite,” Conan says, his eyes flicking toward me, unreadable. “The way I see it, you don’t just want him to feel jealous.”
I stare at him. “What do you think I want, then?”
He steps closer, his presence suddenly larger, heavier, like the air shifted just for him. He leans in, close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze.
“You want him to regret it,” he says, voice rough but quiet, like a wolf’s low growl. “You want him to look at you and see everything he’ll never have again.”
I swallow, my throat dry. He’s not wrong.
“Don’t act like you know me,” I say, but it’s weak, even to my ears.
Conan’s grin is slow, predatory. “I don’t have to know you, Florence. I just have to know what it feels like to want someone to suffer.”
The air between us feels too thick, like it’s charged with something I don’t understand. I glance away, heart pounding too fast.
“I’m going to bed,” I mutter, stepping away from him.
“Sleep well, Florence,” Conan says, his voice soft but sharp, like a blade sliding into its sheath.
I don’t turn around. I don’t give him the satisfaction. But as I walk back to my cabin, I feel his eyes on me the entire way.
---
Later that night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see George’s face, his stupid smirk, his hands on her.
But then, something else creeps in.
Silver-gray eyes. Warm, firm hands. A grin that’s too sharp to be safe.
I roll over, pulling the blanket tighter around me, but it doesn’t help. No matter how much I try to fight it, one thought keeps circling back.
I should be thinking about George. I should be thinking about revenge.
But all I can think about is him.
- Writer
