The Marriage Game

In Which There is Dancing, Drama, and the Destruction of the Status Quo

The ballroom was cavernous, the ceiling so high Camila could barely see the intricate stained-glass skylights. The filtered light painted the floor in pale shades of violet, blue, and yellow. Rows of stone columns, roaring lions at their base, stood nearly three feet in diameter. Omegas dressed in dark green carried china trays of delicate cucumber sandwiches, salmon crostini, and champagne.

The scene took Camila's breath away.

She started at the edge of the crowd, mingling with some of the lower level alphas. She ate a single pão de queijo, a doughy cheese bread ball that made her mouth water, but avoided the champagne; she wanted to be alert at all times. As the sun sunk lower in the sky, the servants lit candles, lending a golden glow to the room. 

Camila took to the dance floor, spending a moment with every suitor she could find. She kept an eye on Declan, ready to stop whatever nefarious plan is in the works, but whenever she looked over, he was standing still. He leaned casually against the back wall, those brilliant green eyes never straying far from her.

It was hot and humid, summer in the Amazon, but Camila shivered.

Rather than acknowledge him, she found another dance partner. Then another. It was late and the hard soles of her stilettos cut into her toes. Tomorrow, her feet would be raw and blistered. 

The dance floor was almost empty. Most guests sat talking quietly or they've already left. The violinist played a solo, a slow, sad melody.

She was twirling in the arms of Alpha Eric—a skinny man, built like a runner, with an easy smile and a goatee—when he started towards her.

"May I cut in?"

Camila knew Eric says something, but she didn't hear him. Declan stole every bit of focus she had.

He looked handsome, in a black suit that, although it must have been borrowed, perfectly highlighted his broad shoulders. His dark hair was messy, tousled, as if he hadn't bothered to brush it before the dance. Green eyes glared down at her.

He was unhappy, Camila realized, and the mating bond surged to life. She should comfort him, hold him, bring him somewhere safer, more intimate.

The other, more rational part of her, remembered lying on the floor after the interrogation. Feeling pathetic. Manipulated. Foolish.

But it would be impolite to refuse his offer.

She slipped her hand into his. His other hand settled on her waist, pulling her closer than is strictly necessary.

They danced.

The air between them--what little of it there was--pulsed with tension. Camila's skin tingled, vibrating with energy. The dress felt too tight, the fabric too rough against her skin. Her cheeks flushed.

"I'm surprised you know how to dance." She was desperate for a distraction. And it was true, he could dance, although his movements were more practical than elegant. Not the background she would expect for a Vindicator.

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

The violinist kept playing, every note long and mournful. Camila smiled tersely. She didn't owe him anything.

"We need to talk," Declan said.

"Then talk," she said. His hand was calloused, rough against hers. "I can't promise to listen."

They turned. The skirts of her dress kissed his thighs, their bodies moving in sync. In a single movement, he pulled her flush against him, body to body, separated only by thin fabric.