Page 25 of Carry Your Debt

The chatter surrounding them drops ever so subtly at his rumbled laughter. It now seems everyone in their general proximity—including Sabine’s companions—is holding their collective breath, waiting for her rejection.

Even Gabriel and Rafael are watching soundlessly, and those assholes love hearing their own voices. They might not be privy to her exact identity as we are, but no doubt they’re each dying to know exactly why the Northern Sovereign has taken such a keen interest in her.

Midas extends a single hand in invitation while at the same time smoothly depositing his unfinished drink on a passing tray. It's a move that says he’s confident she’s not even contemplating the idea of refusal. The poor waiter squeaks in surprise before barreling through the press of bodies.

Sabine stares down the hand like it’s a serpent reared up, fangs bared and ready to sink its venom directly into her flesh. Like she’s verymuchthinking about telling him exactly what he can do with it.

Two thudding heartbeats later, she stonily passes off her own champagne glass. As soon as her hand slips into his, he yanks her in against his body, and the aggressive power move has all five of us stepping forward before we can stop ourselves.

The guy previously glued to her side throws out a low armbar in warning, bringing the two bulky Enforcers to a halt. The three of them exchange frustrated words beneath their breaths, though their eyes never leave the back of Sabine’s head.

“Relax, it’s a simple waltz,” Midas teases lightly as he pulls her along, but there’s a coiling undertone to his humor that's almost serpentine. “You’re as stiff as all this marble around us. Almost makes me want to take you home and display you on a plinth.”

I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper.

“I tried telling you that I’m not a great dancer,” Sabine grits out, the lie written all over the downturned purse of her lips.

Midas, still ignoring her weak excuses, spins her deftly away from her keepers, and Atlas and I finally get our first front-on view of the monarch’s face.

Golden skin, golden hair and the type of flashing, intelligent eyes whose color is impossible to pin down under this type of lighting. To most, that set of features would seem safely handsome and charming. And I’m sure he’s more than charismatic enough to pull it off in normal circumstances.

All I see is the perfect predator.

An empty gaze, focus honed sharply on the prey currently within his clutches, all while seasoned instincts keep him keenly aware of his surroundings.

As if to prove that point exactly, those fathomless eyes lift and find mine through the crowd unerringly.

I suck in a breath at the veiled menace I see there; my feet rooted to the spot, my stomach heavy with ice-packed dread. Ambient sounds fall away, and I watch as each of the muscles along Sabine’s exposed neck and back seem to tense. There’s an echoing tightness that spirals along my own limbs and spine.

His face splits with a newly mocking smile, one framed by a set of sharp, white incisors.

One hand drifts down, stopping just above the swell of her ass.

And then he fuckingwinks.

The moment that follows seems to hang forever, the suspense only breaking when a jittery man in a crimson host’s mask appears suddenly at Midas’s side.

“Your Grace, her Honor wishes to speak with you,” the messenger rushes out, wringing his hands and bobbing nervously. Midas doesn’t acknowledge the interruption, the poor man visibly aging by the second.

The king of the North’s unerring focus is instead back on Sabine. It's another painstaking minute before he deigns to break the silence. “Do remember, little rook—these violent delights have violent ends,” he purrs cryptically.

Then, with what might have been another sly wink, he turns on his heel and strides past the sweeping staircase that’s been roped off from the rest of the party and toward a set of curtains. The mass of guests between us and the stairs immediately melts back, leaving a generous path before him.

My brow furrows as I’m left staring daggers at the back of Sabine’s white blonde hair and feathered mask, turning the random Shakespearean line over and over.

“And in their triumph die like fire and powder,which as they kiss consume,” Atlas murmurs from beside me.

I grunt in acknowledgment.

Only whyRomeo and Juliet? Did this man—who reportedly controls almost half the known criminal syndicates in the country—consider himself and Sabine...star-crossed lovers?

Nothing about their interaction spoke of romantic interest.

At least not consensual.

My teeth gnash against the inside of my cheeks.

His hand on her ass. And that fucking wink.

---