Page 22 of Deadly Oath

He rattles it off like it’s nothing, like he’s asked for an order like it a hundred times before, and I feel an odd flicker of jealousy.Does he order the same thing for every woman he asks out on a date?

Does it matter?It’s not like I thinkhe’sa virgin. His confidence and arrogance would suggest otherwise, even if the idea of any man his age—and who looks like he does—being a virgin wasn’t already absolutely ridiculous. He’s been on dates before, certainly, so why would it matter if he’s got a drink order ready to go?

The only explanation I have is that I already want to be special to him. And that’s a dangerous road to go down.

The bartender slides two drinks over and a shot a moment later—one drink dark and the other a lighter honey color. Kian nudges the honey-colored drink and the shot toward me.

“Take a sip of the shot,” he says with a grin. “I want to know what you think. And then try the drink.”

“You like telling people what to do, don’t you?” I narrow my eyes at him as I look at the shot of whiskey dubiously. “Is that why you went into law enforcement?”

Kian smirks. “Maybe I just like tellingyouwhat to do.”

Heat washes over me at that, and I feel my cheeks turn pink. I see him looking at me blush, amusement flickering in his eyes, and it gives me as strange, not entirely unpleasant, feeling in my stomach. A fluttering, like butterflies, a feeling of uncertain anticipation that makes me want to know where this night could go.

I grab the shot, wincing at the strong smell of the bourbon as ithits my nose. I take a tentative sip, my eyes widening with surprise as the sting hits my tongue—but it does taste good. “It’s strong,” I manage as I set the glass back down, and Kian laughs.

“Yeah, it is. You like it?”

“I don’t know.” I take another tentative sip, the spicy, almost vanilla aftertaste settling on the back of my tongue. “Maybe?” I reach for the mixed drink, and try that instead.

Much better. There’s that spice of the bourbon still, but now mixed with the sweetness of honey and a slight tang of lemon, enough to soften it. My eyes widen as I take another sip. “This is actually really good.”

“So the princess likes bourbon. Good to know.” Kian takes the rest of the shot, then follows it up with a sip from his drink. He glances over towards the band, where the space in front of the stage is starting to fill up. It’s mostly couples dancing together, but there’s a group of friends there too, all wearing denim skirts and varying cute tops, with cowboy boots on.

I follow his gaze, and he looks back at me. “Want to dance? Wait—I know this one. You don’t know how, do you?”

I glare at him, taking another drink. “I know how to dance. I know how to waltz, foxtrot?—”

“Line dance?” He gestures at the group of people out on the floor, that ever-present amused look on his face. “If you say yes, you’re lying, princess.”

A part of me wants to try to lie to him, just to take that smirk off of his face if he believed me. But he’d figure out the lie pretty quickly, once we got out there. I definitelydon’tknow how to line dance.

“No,” I admit. “But I bet I could pick it up pretty quickly. I’ve had dancing lessons since I was a little girl. Ballet, then ballroom?—”

Kian’s gaze sweeps over me, something heating in it as he takes me in. “I should have guessed ballet,” he says gruffly. “You have the build for it.”

Something about the way he’s appraising me makes my skin heat all over again. “It’s been a long time since I did ballet.” I swallow hard,reaching for my drink again. Kian’s unrelenting gaze makes me feel like I need it.

He finishes his off, too, sliding down from the barstool and reaching for my hand. “Come on,” he says, his expression shifting back to amusement. “Let’s see how quickly you pick this up, then.”

I follow him out to the dance floor, grateful that he hangs back a bit, rather than urging me up front with the dancers who look like they actually do know what they’re doing. Kian stands next to me, his hand on the small of my back as the music picks up, and I try to focus on the rhythm instead of his touch.

I’ve danced for so many years that it’s not actually that difficult to pick up on what the others are doing, and the steps I’m supposed to follow. I catch the rhythm quickly enough, and Kian’s hand falls away from my back. I realize, as I dance, I’m enjoying myself more than I thought I would.

When the music stops, I turn to look at Kian, who grins at me. “You picked that up surprisingly fast,” he says, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Do you like pointing out the things I don’t know how to do?” I demand, feeling my nerves start to fray a little. I think I like Kian—I definitelywanthim—but I can’t pinpoint how he feels about me. “Is that fun for you?”

Kian’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me in closer as his gaze heats. “Maybe I just like the opportunity to teach you things,” he says, his voice taking on that low rasp again. “Maybe I like being the first to show you new things, too.”

It’s impossible to miss what he’s insinuating. I swallow hard, feeling my breath catch in my throat as he pulls me close enough for my body to brush against his. The music is starting back up, the lines of dancers forming again, but Kian doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Want another drink?” he asks, his hand sliding to the very base of my spine, fingers brushing against the thin strip of skin where my sweater has ridden up a bit above the waist of my jeans.

“Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?” I whisper, feeling my pulse flutter in my throat.

Kian’s mouth twitches. “Do I need to?”

The question feels like a jolt.Does he need to?I don’t think so. There’s a buzz in my veins, a foggy feeling in my head, but it has nothing to do with the one drink I had, and everything to do with how close he is. I can feel the heat of his skin, smell his scent, woodsy and spicy and even more intoxicating than the whiskey. I want him closer. I want to find out more.

---