Page 2 of Dark Promise

“Taking you somewhere you can rest that ankle,” I say, steering us through the crowd.

I find a quiet side terrace away from the people and the noise. It’s empty, the chaos of the party a muffled hum. I set her gently on a cushioned bench, my hands lingering.

She shifts, then reaches down to rub her ankle, her long nails painted gold. The side of her dress falls away at the slit, revealing her naked, gold-dusted leg.

She notices me looking and raises her gaze to mine. “Do you always rescue strangers at parties like a real-life superhero?”

“Only when they fall from the heavens,” I tell her without missing a beat.

I don’t mention that we aren’t strangers and I’m no superhero. Most of the time, I’m the bad guy—someone out of a girl like Sabina Russo’s worst nightmares.

Sabina’s laugh, soft and genuine, tugs at something inside me I’ve long since buried.

“Do lines like that usually work for you?” she asks with an arched brow, her lips curling into a smile that’s both teasing and dangerous.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, my tone darkening. “I don’t usually need to try.”

“That’s cocky.” Her smile falters, her gaze flicking over my face—or what she can see of it beneath the cowl.

I wonder what she’s searching for. A weakness? A truth? Something she can use against me?

I shrug. “It’s the truth.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” she counters, her voice calm. Cool. But I catch the faint tremor there. It’s not fear. It’s awareness. She feels it too, this pull between us. Like gravity. Inescapable.

I’ve felt it since I saw her—trulysaw her—after her father’s murder, the grief in her eyes raw and unguarded, but her core of steel unbroken. A goddess standing in the ruins.

"Maybe I will.”

I brush my fingers against her bare, golden leg. She inhales sharply and her lips part. I stare at those lips, wanting to taste them, taste her. Wanting to see them wrapped around my cock.

Fuck.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do lines like that ever work on you?”

She hasn’t moved away from my touch as my fingers linger on her bare skin. “Only on Halloween,” she says, her voice breathy now. “And only when spoken by a man wearing a mask…or should I say a cowl?”

She’s playing with me, testing boundaries. She has no idea what she’s inviting, what I’m holding back.

“Careful,” I murmur, as I stroke the length of her calf. “You might not like what’s behind this one.”

Her breath catches, and for an instant, vulnerability flickers in her cool blue eyes. “Maybe I would.”

It’s not a taunt—it’s an admission, one she doesn’t mean to make. But it lands like a spark on dry kindling, and I have to lock my jaw to keep from pulling her against me and proving her right.

Instead, I pull back, putting space between us. Her gaze lingers on me, watching, waiting. She doesn’t trust me butshe’s curious. I could use that curiosity, turn it into something sharper, something dangerous.

“I’m thirsty,” she says suddenly, breaking the tension between us.

I nod once, retreating to fetch us drinks, vodka on the rocks for me, a French 75 for her.

“Ah,” she says with a nod at my glass when I return. “A classic and powerful choice. Bold. Uncomplicated. Quietly confident.”

I laugh. “And yours is a refined and glamorous choice. Effervescent champagne with the surprising depth of gin.”

Her mouth rounds and she presses a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “Did you just call my depth surprising?” She takes the glass from me, her fingers brushing mine again—deliberate this time.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice softer now. “For more than just the drink.”

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