Page 37 of His to Destroy

The music dips. Whispers rise.

I feel her fingers tighten slightly on my arm. It’s subtle, but I notice.

"Ignore them," I murmur.

"Easy for you to say."

"They’re already beneath you. They just don’t know it yet."

Her eyes flash at that, and I feel a surge of something hot in my chest.

We make our way through the crowd.

I exchange greetings. Shake hands. Accept praise and calculated compliments. Almeria stays composed, poised, answering when spoken to but offering little else.

Until we reach the Don of the Bianchi family.

He looks at her like she’s meat.

"So this is the woman who turned the cold-blooded Colosimo into a husband," he says, eyes sweeping her frame.

I step in front of her slightly.

"She’s also the reason your men haven’t been wiped off the map."

His smirk fades.

Almeria leans in just enough to be heard.

"Careful, Don Bianchi. My husband doesn’t like to be mocked."

Her voice is sugar and venom.

I almost kiss her right there.

I like the face she’s wearing tonight. A fierce heroine, not a naive little maiden hiding in her husband’s shadow.

As the night goes on, the tension diffuses.

Almeria relaxes, getting comfortable with the crowd and the attention that shifts to us every once in a while.

She’s still guarded, no doubt. But she’s less tense now. Enough to sip wine and speak more openly. Enough to let me rest my hand against the small of her back without flinching.

But I feel it building.

The heat. The awareness.

Every time our eyes meet, something passes between us. Something unspoken. Heavy. Electric.

I’m losing the ability to pretend.

And so is she. I can tell.

As the night drags on, we find a quiet corner near the balcony.

The air outside is cooler, softer. The sounds of the party blur behind the glass.

"You were perfect tonight," I say.

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