Page 50 of Soulbound
She's not yours.
You can't have her.
But some part of him laughed at himself, as though it saw straight through the lies.
This was no longer the virginal miss who'd first caught his eye.
Nor was she openly enticing, the way most of the female sorcerers in the ballroom were. No, she stood apart. Shy. Breathless. Somehow untouchable, and yet yearning to be touched. Cleo gazed down over the ballroom, her eyes covered by a delicate gold mask. He saw the moment she noticed him staring at her, and the sense of connection slammed through him.
The soul-bond roared to life through his veins.
"Cat caught your tongue, brother?" Bishop appeared out of nowhere, bringing him back into the present. There was a knowing look in Bishop's eyes as Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath and looked away from her.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"
Bishop straightened his gloves. "If you won't have her, then some lucky man will. Look at them. They're all watching her with appreciation."
Bishop might as well have been bloody prophetic, for there were heads turning all across the ballroom. Appreciation was one word for it.
And she'd be free to take up any offers she received if they got an annulment. A knot tightened in his gut. He wanted her to be happy. He did. But there was something ugly inside him too, something primeval that wanted to beat its fists on his chest and claim her for his own.
The thought of another man touching her almost undid him.
"Well, she's mine for tonight," he said coldly. "So they can all go hang." Sebastian drained his champagne glass, setting it on a passing tray as he strode away from Bishop.
Catching her skirts up in her hands, Cleo began the descent, her eyes hesitantly meeting his through the eyeholes of the mask. This was her night, the ball she'd always dreamed of. He couldn't destroy the moment for her.
And maybe it would be something he could remember when—if—he left England.
Playing the part, he captured her hand as she took the last step, lifting it to his lips. "You look beautiful."
She smiled shyly. "So do you."
His smile slipped. Women had called him beautiful as they'd forced him into their beds.
The heat in Cleo's eyes as she eyed him appreciatively made him feel uncertain. Lust mixed together with the horrible sensation of other women's hands pawing at him. He wanted this to be her night, and he wanted to be the man she thought him, but it was too late. He'd thought of the past, and his mouth tasted sour.
"Are you all right?" she asked with a frown.
He lowered her hand from his lips, holding on to it tightly. He wanted to hold on to the purity of her. Not think of the other. "I'm fine. Are you going to save me a dance?"
"Do you want to dance with me?"
He needed something more than flirtation to take his mind off things. Stroking her cheek, he bent his head and swiftly kissed her on the mouth. "Yes."
As far as kisses went, it hearkened straight back to their first awkward attempt, when she'd caught him by surprise. He hadn't reacted then, and he'd surprised her now.
Cleo blinked. "What was that for?"
Merciful mother of night, but he was making a hash of this. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Her hand pressed to his chest. "Never be sorry for kissing me."
"Even if it is as terrible as that?" Simply holding her hand was relaxing him, though the back of his neck still felt clammy.
She touched her lips. "Terrible is not the word I was looking for. Perhaps we simply need more practice?"
There was the distraction he needed. He looked down and finally saw her—truly saw her—pulling out of the spell that had bound him for several seconds. "Are you offering to practice kissing with me?"
