And the ache buried deep in my chest burns hotter with every moment that passes.
When dinner is finished, the band starts up. Some people migrate to the dance floor, others stay to chat and mingle around their tables. Rowan heads to the bar to get us another round of drinks and becomes caught in conversation along the way. Likewise, I find myself swept away with the stories and anecdotes of our table companions who have remained behind.
But my eyes stray to the tall, beautiful man who sucks all the air from the room like an inferno.
He knows my darkest secrets. I know his. We can be monsters, and maybe we don’t deserve the same things that other people do. Happiness. Affection. Love. But I can’t seem to stop the way I feel when I look at every facet of Rowan, from his brightest light to his deepest, most dangerous dark. Maybe I don’t deserve it for the things I’ve done. But I want it. I want more with him than what I’ve got.
Suddenly, I’m excusing myself from the table and weaving my way toward him before I even know what I’m going to do. His back is to me, my fresh glass of champagne in one hand, a glass of whiskey on ice in the other. He’s speaking to a couple and another man, one he introduced to me as an investment broker. I stop just behind him, and when there’s a break in conversation I lay a hand on Rowan’s sleeve, my mind seemingly cleaved in two, like I’m watching myself from outside my body.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile as he passes me the flute. “We got chatting about business.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I start to retreat but Rowan catches my wrist. He says something about it not being an interruption but I absorb only one or two key words beyond the music and the deafening percussion of my heart. I swallow, my eyes snagged on his lips before I finally manage to lift them and meet his gaze. “Would you like to dance? With me…?”
Rowan’s momentary surprise evaporates as his attention flicks to the dance floor, a spark igniting in his eyes as his lips lift at one corner. It reminds me of the devilish little smile he had at Thorsten’s when the cannibal suggested a visit to the tomato garden. When Rowan’s eyes meet mine once more, they glimmer. “Absolutely,” he says. He pulls my drink from my hand and places our beverages on a nearby table before leading us through the crowd.
As we near the dance floor, the band finishes one song and starts another, the pace slower but still energetic enough to be more than a shuffling dance, the tone romantic. Some people leave to refresh their drinks. Others pair up. I think for a moment that Rowan might detour back to the table or turn around to gauge my reaction, but he doesn’t. He forges ahead with my hand clasped in his until we’re on the floor among the couples, facing one another.
“You’re probably going to be annoyingly good at this, aren’t you,” I say as his right hand slides across my hip, his left holding my right hand aloft, his grip warm and steady.
Rowan grins down at me and begins to lead us in movement. Nothing fancy, nothing showy. Just synchronicity, like we fit to one another, to the music. “And you’ll still be better at it than me, won’t you.”
I smile and Rowan’s grin grows brighter, then I raise our joined hands in a signal he understands. He guides me through a little spin, letting me out, reeling me back in closer with a chuckle. “Maybe. Or maybe we’ll be just the same,” I say, and I hold his eyes for as long as I can before my gaze drifts away over his shoulder.
The song plays on and I feel every little change of motion and charge in the air. Rowan’s hold on my back becomes an embrace. My hand on his arm shifts to hook around his shoulder. His chest touches mine with every inhalation. When his breath warms my neck where my waves are swept back, my eyes drift closed. My head tilts. I want another kiss there, right where my pulse surges, so I know it’s not just a moment of the past, an anomaly.
“Sloane…” he says close to my ear as we make a gradual turn.
“Yes,” I whisper, that simple word unsteady on a ragged breath.
“Are you ready to have some real fun?”
My eyes flutter open. Rowan’s voice is steady and clear. Devious. Not like mine, breathy with want and rioting desires.
I say nothing as I pull back enough to show him the confusion and questions lodged in my furrowed brow. That devilish smile is back, sneaking across his lips. A smile of secrets.
“The bald man with the glasses and the red tie. You should be able to see him across my shoulder,” he says.
My gaze scans the dance floor and lands on a trim man in his mid-fifties in a well-cut designer suit. He dances with a woman about his age, her blonde hair set back in a sleek updo.
I nod.
“His name is Dr. Stephan Rostis.” Rowan’s lips graze my ear as he then whispers, “And he’s a serial killer. He’s killed at least six of his patients over his fifteen years in Boston. Maybe more when he was living in Florida. And we can take him out together. Tonight.”
My steps become wooden and small. The pieces I’d put together in my head are suddenly split apart and rearranged into another picture. I got it all wrong. It was just in my head.
I was wrong about everything.
Our steps slow and stop. Rowan pulls away and looks me over, excitement still radiant in his eyes. “I’ve got a great plan. He never stays late at these things. We can grab him and come back here without our absence being noticed. Perfect alibi.”
“I…um…” Thoughts die before they land on my tongue and I clear my throat to try again, hoping I can infuse my voice with strength that just won’t come. “I’m not really dressed for the occasion,” I hedge, looking down at the red velvet shimmering in the flash of lights.
“I’ll do all the messy stuff.”
It’s the first time that I can think of when I’ve not been excited at the prospect of killing another killer. It’s just not what I expected, I guess. Not where I wanted this evening to go.
“Hey, you okay?” Rowan asks. “I thought the color of your dress was an inside joke—you know, blood red and all—but I’ll make sure it doesn’t get damaged, of course.”
My heart is crinkling like paper crushed in a fist.
“But if you don’t want to…” he continues, his voice fading as worry and maybe disappointment weigh down every note. He seems to realize we haven’t been aligned at all when he says, “I thought when I said we could have some ‘real fun’ that you knew what I meant.”
“No, I actually didn’t get that. But I can see it now.”
The pause between us feels a thousand years long. Rowan’s thumb lifts my chin, my focus still trapped on my dress until I’m forced to meet his eyes.
Confusion is etched between his brows. His gaze scours my face—my flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, my lips that are set in a tense line.