Raven
Neil led me toward the dance floor, which had cleared of people during the fight. The music began to play the moment we set foot in the center of the circle, a lively and upbeat tune that thrummed up through the soles of my feet.
Someone in the crowd whistled as Neil tugged me closer, and I felt dozens of pairs of eyes on us as he stopped in the center, turned, and offered me his other hand.
“Shall we?” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder, and I found myself gripping his hands a little tighter, trying to fight the heat that was creeping up my neck. Neil's bare chest—thanks to his recent victory—was right there in front of me, close enough that I could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. There was blood
