Page 5 of The Darkest Gift

"Alright then," he says after a moment, setting his drink down on the table beside him with deliberate care. "Dance with me."

I cock an eyebrow, pretending to consider it, even though I knew this was coming. "Let me guess," I drawl, tilting my head slightly, "this is supposed to be the grand gesture that surprises me?"

"Maybe," he replies, extending a hand toward me. His fingers are long, elegant, and there’s a faint scar running over the knuckle of his thumb—small details that make him somehow more sinful. "Or maybe," he adds, his voice dropping just a fraction, "it’s just step one."

"Step one to what?" I ask, even as I set my drink down also and place my hand in his. His palm is warm against mine, his grip firm but not forceful. There’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes as he pulls me toward him.

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" His grin is sharp now, daring me to press further. But I don’t. Not yet. The game is too much fun to rush.

He leads me onto the dance floor, where the music hums low and slow—a sultry rhythm that feels like it’s seeping into my bones. I can feel Mason’s gaze burning into my back from across the room, and the thought sends a thrill through me. Let him watch.

"Still not surprised," I whisper as he places a hand on my waist, pulling me just close enough for our bodies to align without quite touching. The heat radiating off him is intoxicating.

"Give it time," he replies smoothly, guiding me into the first steps of the dance. His movements are fluid, confident, and he doesn’t take his eyes off mine. It’s unnerving how easily he commands the space around him, how natural it feels to follow his lead despite the stubborn streak in me that usually resists this kind of surrender.

We move together, the tension between us thickening with each turn. His hand presses slightly firmer against the small of my back, sending sparks skittering beneath my skin. My breath comes shorter with every shift of his body against mine, every glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, his voice barely audible above the music. There’s a smugness to his tone, but it’s tempered by genuine curiosity.

"Moderately," I lie, though the flush rising in my cheeks probably gives me away. He smirks as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as if he can read the way my pulse quickens every time his fingers brush against me.

"Moderately," he echoes, his mouth so close to my ear now that I feel the heat of his breath. "We’ll have to work on that."

"Don’t flatter yourself," I retort, though my voice falters slightly as he spins me, pulling me back against him with practiced ease. The movement leaves no space between us now, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, the hard lines of his body fitting against me like they belong there.

"Who said anything about flattery?" he murmurs, his lips curving into a wicked smile. His hand slides higher up my spine, and I swear the temperature in the room spikes ten degrees.The world narrows until it’s just us—the music, the heat, the unbearable pull of him.

I glance past his shoulder for half a second and catch Mason’s gaze. He’s watching us, his expression unreadable, but I can feel the weight of his attention, the intensity of it. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.

"Still not surprised," I whisper, leaning in just close enough that my breath ghosts over his jawline.

"Good," he says, his voice rougher now. "I like a challenge. But you’ve already got the advantage." He continues to sway us, leading us to move with the sultry music. His blue eyes flicker with something sharp, like he’s dissecting me and savoring every piece. "You know who I am—clearly—but here I am, entirely in the dark about you. No last name, no breadcrumbs. Should I at least be granted the pleasure of knowing what you do for a living? Or are you planning to keep me guessing?"

"Why spoil the fun?" I tease, letting my lips curve into a half-smile. His gaze drops there for the briefest moment before snapping back to my eyes, his focus unrelenting.

"Because I have a hunch it’s something… interesting. Something as sharp as that mind of yours." He leans just slightly closer, enough for me to catch the faint scent of his cologne and something sinful beneath it—dangerous, alluring, something that’s all him. "Don’t disappoint me."

"Disappoint you?" I laugh softly, the sound low and rich, designed to pull him closer. "I’d hate to ruin your expectations, Elijah."

"Then don’t," he replies, his tone dripping with challenge.

"Fine," I say after a beat, tilting my head as if weighing whether or not to let him in on this small piece of me. "I’m a criminal psychiatrist."

His reaction is instant, visceral. His eyes flare, glinting like steel catching light. For a moment, a shadow flickers acrosshis face, something mysterious and unreadable. He blinks, and it’s gone, replaced by a slow, crooked smile that’s equal parts impressed and wicked.

"Criminal psychiatrist," he repeats, tasting the words like they’re a rare delicacy. "Beautyandbrains. Now I really should be worried."

"Should you?" I ask, arching an eyebrow, the playful edge in my voice sharpening just a little.

"Well," he considers, his gaze sweeping over me again, slower this time, like he’s reevaluating every inch. "It depends. Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?"

"Would it bother you if I were?" I counter, leaning closer until we’re nearly breathing the same air. The tension crackles like static electricity, thick and buzzing. My pulse kicks up, and I don’t bother hiding it; I know he can feel it, sense it, the way predators always do.

"Only if you find something worth worrying about," he says finally, his voice dropping an octave. There’s a hint of amusement there, a glimmer of sin lurking beneath his charm.

"Maybe you should be worried," I say, my tone light, teasing, though the weight behind the words lingers between us.

"Maybe I like the idea of being worried," he fires back, his smirk deepening as he tips his head toward mine, close enough that I can see the darker flecks in his irises. For a beat, neither of us moves. The world around us—the music, the voices, the clinking glasses—fades into background noise, irrelevant compared to the charged silence stretching taut between us.

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