Page 65 of Unholy Obsession

“Dance?” I repeat because, apparently, I’ve been reduced to an echo.

Bane doesn’t answer. He just stands there with his hand outstretched, like he’s carved from dark marble. Except marble doesn’t make your stomach do somersaults or send a heatwave directly to your undies. No, that’s all him.

My brain scrambles like eggs on high heat.

This is fine. Totally fine.

Normal people get asked to dance all the time. I can do this. I can be graceful and mysterious and definitely not like I’ve mainlined three energy drinks and made a questionable amount of bad decisions today.

I slip my palm into his like I’m about to seal a deal with the devil. Which, knowing me and knowing him, feels about right.

His hand is warm and big and dominating.

Of course, it is.

He pulls me in gently, but not too gently, because he’s Bane, and subtlety isn’t really his brand. My body crashes into his, and I lose the breath in my lungs.

I was sure he wouldn’t come. I was sure I’d ruined things like I always do.

But here he is. Solid. Holding me. Here for me. Even when I was a little shit.

The music shifts. Something low and slow with a beat that crawls under your skin like it belongs there. Figures. Even the DJ is conspiring against me.

Bane slides his hand to my waist, and oh god, how does that feel like both an electric shock and a security blanket at the same time? His other hand keeps mine, fingers entwined, like we’re in some old-timey romance.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark.

“Oh, I’m relaxed,” I chirp because nothing says “relaxed” like sounding like a deranged parakeet. “This is my relaxed face. See?”

His lips twitch. Just a little. Not quite a smile, but enough to make me feel like I’ve won something.

We sway, and it should feel weird, but it doesn’t. Not with him. There’s this magnetic pull with us, like gravity decided to take a coffee break and he’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

I glance up, expecting to see judgment in his eyes. Or anger about earlier.

Instead, I see something else entirely. Heat. Want. Maybe even a little bit of awe, like he can’t believe he’s here with me.

“You’re staring,” I whisper because, of course, I can’t just let the moment be.

“I know,” he replies, unapologetic.

Oh.

My heart does this weird stutter-step like it missed a beat and then tried to catch up all at once. I feel hot and cold and like I might either faint or burst into flames. Maybe both.

“Well, stop it,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind the words.

He doesn’t stop. Of course, he doesn’t. Bane doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. And right now, apparently, he wants to look at me like I’m the answer to his every question.

We keep moving, slow and steady, our bodies close enough that I can feel every inch of him. And trust me, there are a lot of inches to feel.

I’m not sure how long we dance. Time feels slippery like it does when we get in the zone like this. We’re in the bubble. Just me, him, and the quiet thrum of a song I’ll probably never hear the same way again.

When the music finally fades, we don’t move apart. We just stand there, breathing the same air, hearts beating in sync like we’re sharing the same rhythm.

And then he leans down, mouth near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” he whispers. His hand tightens on my waist.

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