Page 134 of The Devil's Trials

I bite my tongue, fighting to hold his gaze as the weight of it bears down on me. “It was this or nothing,” I remark dryly without thinking, then immediately regret it when something dark and suggestive flares in his gaze.

“I suddenly wish I hadn’t left you the dress.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t ignore the heat spreading from my chest to somewhere lower. “I—”

Xander moves before I can put space between us, trapping me in a dance with one hand on my waist, the other grasping mine.

“I hate you,” I mutter under my breath, reluctantly lifting my free hand to rest it on his shoulder as we step back and forth to the music.

“Oh, come on.” He dips his face closer. “You can lie better than that.”

I just shake my head, keeping my jaw clenched shut as I try to ignore the weight of eyes on us.

“I also think you can dance better.”

“You want a better dancing partner? Maybe you should go ask Francesca to be yours.”

Surprise flickers in his gaze. “You met Francesca,” he muses.

“Your betrothed,” I offer, unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone and hating myself for it. “Sure did.”

His brows lift, and he adjusts his hand on my waist. “She hasn’t been that in a long time.”

I exhale a sigh. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“No, but seeing you jealous is rather delightful.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re really just begging for me to step on your toes with these ridiculous heels you left for me to wear, huh?”

He chuckles. “Do you like them? And the dress?”

I give him a look. “I wouldn’t have worn them if I didn’t.”

The look of amusement lingers on his stupidly handsome face. “I’ll take that as a ‘thank you.’?”

My response is a dry, “Do whatever you want, your highness.”

Xander pulls me closer, his lips brushing my ear when he murmurs, “Careful,mo shíorghrá. That is a very dangerous invitation.”

I shiver, and my eyelids flutter almost shut before I can force them open. I look past him to the others dancing around us as the song comes to an end. As soon as it does, I step away from Xander, muttering a quick, “I need some air,” before fleeing the ballroom.

The pressure in my chest doesn’t lessen until I’m a good distance away. I find a bathroom and splash cold water on my face, not caring if it does anything to my makeup at this point. I’m uncomfortably hot, and my pulse is pounding like a jackhammer beneath my flushed skin.

I catch my reflection in the mirror over the vanity and let out a shallow breath as I dry my hands. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes and focus my breathing, using an exercise I learned years ago to calm the anxiety coating my skin like a dark, sticky film.

A few minutes of breathing exercises bring my pulse to a normal pace, and I leave the bathroom, ready to get the hell out of thiscelebration.

I head for the front of the historic building, heading toward the coat check to grab my jacket and purse so I can leave. I might not be able to go home, but I don’t—can’t—stay here any longer.

“Leaving so soon?”

I stop in my tracks, curing the accented sound of Blake’s voice. Begrudgingly, I turn around and face him as he approaches. “What do you want, Blake?”

“Xander needs to speak with you.”

I shake my head, exhaling a low breath. “I drank too much champagne and I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”

His expression is impossible to decipher when he says, “This is important, Camille. You need to hear what he has to say.”

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