Page 47 of Shadows of Steel
Harlow doesn’t falter. She doesn’t shrink under their eyes, doesn’t stumble under the crushing weight of what this night represents. Good. She’ll need that spine of steel if she wants to survive at my side.
A waiter glides past, and I pluck two flutes of champagne from his tray, handing one to her.
She acknowledges him with a nod and a small smile.
The bastard dares to return it, but his gaze flickers downward, lower than it should, lingering where it has no business being.
I don’t think. There is no rationality to this.
My hand shoots out, seizing him by the collar in a vice grip. His tray crashes to the floor, glass shattering, golden liquid splattering across the marble like spilled decadence. The sharp crack of destruction fractures the air, drawing every pair of eyes in the room.
His face flushes crimson as I haul him off his feet, his toes barely grazing the ground.
“You dare lay your eyes upon my wife?” My voice is lethal. Designed to carve fear into his very bones. “What gives you the misguided notion that you have the right to even look at her?”
I yank him forward, my grip tightening like a noose, choking off whatever pathetic excuse he might have offered. “You are nothing. A stain. A fucking insect crawling where it doesn’t belong.” I lean in, my breath a whisper of death against his ear. “And I don’t swat insects, I grind them into the dirt. I make them disappear.”
His pulse stammers beneath my hold, panic bleeding into his expression. Good.
“You do not look at her.” My words are slow, each syllable laced with quiet, venomous warning. “You do not speak to her. You do not even fucking breathe in her direction.”
I shove him back, watching with cold indifference as he stumbles, arms flailing, before hitting the ground with a strangled gasp. I take a step forward, looming over him like a shadow cast by death itself. My voice drops to something crueller. “Cross my path again, and I won’t waste my breath on warnings.”
He gulps frantically, eyes wide with the unmistakable terror of a man who knows he's mere seconds from annihilation. “Run.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself in his desperation to escape, vanishing into the crowd like the insignificant stain he is.
Silence blankets the room, thick, expectant. Whispers slither through the air, women murmuring behind their delicate masks of propriety, eager to sink their teeth into scandal. The sound grates on my nerves.
“There’s nothing to fucking see here.” My voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and merciless. My gaze sweeps over the room, daring anyone, challenging them, to make the mistakeof meeting my eyes. “Mind your own goddamn business before I make it mine.”
I am met with silence, no one daring to breathe before the tension snaps back into place. I exhale, my expression smoothing with the ease of a man who has mastered the art of deception. A shift. A mask. “Enjoy the party.”
Turning, I fix my attention on my wife.
Harlow smirks, the rim of her glass brushing her lips as she sips her champagne, golden eyes shimmering with unrestrained amusement. “That was quite the performance you put on out there.” She muses.
“No one looks at you.” My voice is even, unwavering. “And they sure as hell don’t gawk at what belongs to me.”
I let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of my next words before I deliver them with quiet finality. “You are mine. My wife. My possession. And I am not the kind of man who shares.”
Her smirk only deepens, untouched by my taunt. She tilts her head, amusement flickering in her gaze, teasing, testing. “Jealous?” The single word drips with provocation, as if daring me to admit the obvious. “What if I want them to look?”
I step closer, invading her space, my voice a low whisper against her ear, intimate, dangerous. “Don’t test me, Harlow.” I warn.
She exhales sharply, but I don’t give her the chance to speak before I murmur. “Don’t make me tie you to my bed and fuck you raw until every inch of your body bears my mark, so there’s no question who owns you.”
A shudder rips through her.
I smirk.
“But then again…” My fingers skim down her arm, a lingering threat disguised as a caress. “We both know you’d enjoy that far too much.”
Her lips part, a retort forming, but the words never come, as the air shifts, thick with tension, the crackling heat between us snuffed out in an instant.
Movement catches my eye, drawing my attention from Harlow just as Giovanni Ricci steps forward, his sons flanking him like shadows. Even in a room full of powerful men, they carry themselves like kings, demanding attention without a word. It’s an old trick, one I’ve seen before, one I don’t give a shit about.
My jaw tightens. Fucking Ricci.
