Page 81 of Corrupted Heart

He and I are the same fucking guy.

“I’m going to mingle,” Ares mutters. “Wish me luck.”

When he’s gone, I turn to survey the crowd of guests again. In some ways, it makes my chest swell to spot my siblings and see each of them so happy and fulfilled with their own new lives and families: Callie, throwing her head back and laughing as she dances near the band with Castle. I grin as the Captain America-looking motherfucker dips my sister extravagantly and then leans in to kiss her softly.

Callie deserves that. She earned that.

Near them, Deimos, unbelievably, doesn’t suck at dancing—at least, not too badly—as he twirls a beaming, orange-clad Dahlia. Hades stands near the back of the crowd behind Elsa, one arm slung possessively across her collarbone as he rests his chin on top of her head. The other hand snakes around to her stomach, his hand splayed across her third-trimester belly.

I grin when I see Ya-ya cut in on Callie and Castle, stealing the latter away with a big belly laugh so she can go dance with “her Adonis” as she loves to call her son-in-law.

Turning, I chuckle to myself and shake my head when I spot Ares “mingling”—that is to say, sitting in a quiet corner near the windows overlooking the Manhattan Bridge and the East River, bouncing my nephew Elias on his knee with Neve curled up next to him.

And then there’s you.

Yeah, then there’s me.

It’s not a pity party. I’m not lamenting that I’ve never found anyone—which I get is either gallows humor or just plain rude to say at your own engagement party.

But it’s true.

Some of us are meant to be alone.

I take a sip of my drink, my eyes scanning the room again. This time, it’s not my family my gaze settles on.

It’s Bianca.

She’s with her own family off to one side of the dance floor. Dante and Tempest are having a great time dancing. Nico looks bored and is playing on his phone, while Carmine seems to be visually checking over every unaccompanied female in the room. Don Barone himself looks to be very much enjoying the open bar. The band swings into some Sinatra, and Bianca’s adoptive father hops out of his chair with a whoop, cigar in hand, as he starts to cut a rug enthusiastically on the dance floor.

My gaze drags back to Bianca. Something dark and swirling surges in my chest as my beast prowls behind his locked bars.

This…whatever-it-was between us was one thing. But now it’s something else, something I didn’t plan for.

Marriage changes the dynamic.

Before, this was a game. Before was about her dipping her toes into her own darkness, and me being all too happy to oblige.

Or at least, that’s the bullshit I’ve told myself.

Because as I watch Bianca smile at something Nico says to her, I know there’s a truth I’ve been trying not to admit.

It’s not only that finding a willing partner for my fucked-up tastes is hard, and Bianca being such a willing partner, and a repeat one at that, is a new thing for me.

It’s that the little ballerina does something to me. She…quiets something inside of me.

And I’m not quite sure what to do with that, considering that I’m now miles past wherever I expected this to end when I set these wheels in motion.

A finger taps my shoulder. Frowning at the distraction, I pull away to fake a smile at whichever mafia world player has decided that now is the opportune time to come interrupt my thoughts with their bullshit congratulations.

When I turn, and my eyes latch onto overly-dyed blonde and too much Botox in a dark blue Chanel gown, my jaw tightens.

“I’m positive you weren’t invited,” I growl.

Amaya smiles. “Funny, mine must have been lost in the?—”

“You have five seconds to?—”

“Oh, no, Kratos,” CIA Special Agent Amaya Mircari smiles at me. “You have five seconds to come outside and talk to me. Or, I promise, you’ll regret it.”

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