Page 62 of Grin and Bear It

The Grand Enchanted Ballroom lived up to its name. Crystal chandeliers floated without visible support near the vaulted ceiling, their light refracted through magical prisms that cast gentle rainbows across the marble floor. Enchanted ice sculptures depicting various shifter forms stood at intervals around the room’s perimeter, shimmering with internal light that pulsed in time with the music.

Artair guided Thora through the crowd with practiced ease, his hand resting lightly against the bare skin of her lower back. Each touch sent a pleasant warmth through his palm as if her skin generated its own particular energy. He noticed how she leaned subtly into his touch—perhaps unconsciously—and stored the observation away like a precious coin.

“The redhead at two o’clock has been watching us since we entered,” Thora murmured, her lips barely moving. “Friend or foe?”

“Marissa Coldwell. Harmless socially, lethal financially. She’s likely calculating what our supposed relationship might mean for Maxen Corp stock prices.” He nodded politely to an elderly couple as they passed. “My romantic entanglements tend to make the business pages.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It can be.” He guided her toward a less crowded area near one of the ice sculptures—a bear mid-roar, its crystalline form catching the light. “That’s partly why I’ve kept to myself in recent years.”

“And the other part?” She asked the question casually, but he sensed genuine curiosity beneath the professional facade.

“Finding someone who wants Artair, not Maxen,” he admitted quietly. “Someone who sees beyond the bank accounts and boardrooms.”

Her eyes studied him with that disconcerting perception that always made him feel transparent. “Must be difficult to know who’s genuine when you have so much to offer superficially.”

The observation surprised him—not for its content but for the lack of judgment behind it. She wasn’t mocking his privileged problems or dismissing them; she was acknowledging a genuine challenge of his position.

“It is,” he agreed, wondering if she realized how rare such understanding was. “Though sometimes there are unexpected advantages to meeting someone who tackles you in the town square rather than at a charity gala.”

A hint of a smile played on her lips. “Like knowing right away she’s not after your money?”

“Like knowing she sees me clearly enough to consider me a target rather than a prize,” he countered, returning her smile. “Clarity has its appeal.”

The orchestra transitioned into a new piece—the elegant strains of “Moonlight Sonata” filling the ballroom. Around them, couples moved toward the dance floor.

“We should join them,” Artair suggested, noting the interested glances being cast their way. “Couples who don’t dance at events like this stand out.”

“I don’t dance,” she replied automatically, tension entering her frame.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve taken down rogue werewolves and disarmed magical traps. A simple waltz can’t possibly intimidate you.”

Her eyes narrowed at the gentle challenge. “Are you manipulating me, Maxen?”

“Motivating,” he corrected, offering his hand. “There’s a difference.”

“And that difference would be?”

“Desire,” he echoed their earlier exchange, pleased when her lips twitched toward a smile.

After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his. “If I step on your feet, remember this was your idea.”

He led her onto the dance floor where other couples moved in practiced patterns across the polished marble. As his hand settled on her waist and their fingers intertwined, he felt a subtle tremor pass through her—not fear, but awareness. The same current that flowed between them whenever they touched, amplified by the intimate context.

“Relax,” he murmured, guiding her into the first steps. “Dancing is just combat with better music.”

That earned him a soft laugh—a sound that delighted his bear each rare time he managed to evoke it. “Interesting perspective. I’m guessing you didn’t include that comparison in your ballroom dance lessons.”

“I had a unique instructor. My grandmother believed dancing was essential for developing proper fighting stance and balance.” He guided her through a turn, noting with pleasure how quickly she adapted to follow his lead. “She used to make me practice waltzes while reciting clan histories.”

“Sounds like an intimidating woman.”

“She is. You’ll like her once you get to know her.”

The casual implication that they would know each other long enough for such a meeting hung in the air between them. Artair watched Thora process the statement, noting the brief flicker of panic in her eyes followed by something softer, more uncertain.

Rather than pressing the point, he guided her into another turn, giving her space to find her equilibrium. Her natural grace made her a quick study, and soon they were moving together with surprising harmony.

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