My father moved on only after another few seconds that felt like a knife held too close to the skin.
His smile stayed in place as he turned away from me, polite and calculated, like the exchange had meant nothing at all. That was the most frightening part because men like Rodrigo Castellanos never looked twice at something unless they wanted to own it, break it, or use it later.
I kept my face still, my back straight, and kept dancing.
Bastián’s hand at my waist remained steady, but his countenance had changed anyway. He had seen the way my body locked for that small instant when my father looked at me, he had seen the control I forced back into place before anyone else could notice. Such a stillness was not natural, not in the middle of a ballroom, not under the eyes of Sangre Antigua
