Page 73 of Left-Hand Larceny

Christian has her backed against a decorative pillar, his arm braced casually near her shoulder. He’s leaning in, whispering something I can’t hear. Her arms are crossed tight, blocking her chest, her jaw set.

I walk straight up behind her, slide my arm around her waist, and pull her back into my chest.

She softens immediately. Takes a breath as her spine melts into my chest. Another. My chest rises and falls with hers. Her dress catches against the callouses of my palm. I curl my fingers into the fabric, fisting it along her hip. She pushes back against me, and I try to ignore the way she rubs against my dick.

Around us, the ballroom ceases to exist. The sounds are muffled, like the Stand on game day. I know it’s loud, but the sound isn’t registering. Not with every atom of my being centered on Sadie leaned into my body.

She fits.

The other man’s eyes flick up. “Sadie?”

I don’t like the way he says her name, dripping with condescension.

I don’t like the way he looks at her, as if she belongs to him.

I meet his gaze even as I drop my chin to Sadie’s bare shoulder. Her skin is cold, covered in gooseflesh. I press my lips to the curve and she presses even closer.

“Sadie.” Not a question this time, not with the way his eyes harden. “I asked you a question.”

He didn’t ask her. Not really.

“You’re m-making her u-u-uncomfortable. Apologize a-and walk away.”

He laughs. Like I just told him I moonlight as a ballerina.

“This is the guy?” he says, looking back at Sadie. “The great Viking savior? Thought you liked men who could finish a sentence.”

Sadie stiffens.

So do I, but I don’t rise to it. I breathe.

In. Out. Just like I do before a shootout.

Sadie’s still against me, spine pressed to my chest, her arms crossed like a shield she forgot she doesn’t need anymore. She’s shaking—only a little—but I feel it, the way her muscles flutter beneath my palm.

“I s-said,” I repeat, quieter now, leaning in enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear, “you’re m-making her uncomfortable. A-apologize. And w-walk away.”

Christian doesn’t move.

For a beat, he just watches her. Watches us. Like he’s measuring how far he can push. Like he thinks he still has some kind of claim on her. And I realize, suddenly and with cold clarity, that he doesn’t see her as a person. Just as something that used to be his. Something he thinks still should be.

“She didn’t say that,” he says, smug again, like he’s found a loophole. “She’s just overwhelmed. She gets like this, don’t you, sweetheart? Emotional. Overreacting. Always needs someone to save her.”

Sadie flinches.

And that—that’s what does it. Not the insult to me. The dig at her.

I move slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every shift of my body as I turn her slightly, enough that I can put myself more squarely between them. My arm never leaves her waist. She doesn’t let go of me either.

“She doesn’t n-need saving,” I say, voice calm. “She n-n-needs s-space. And a m-man who r-respects what she s-says. Even when i-it’s not said o-out loud.”

Christian opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to twist something—but he catches the look in my eyes and thinks better of it.

His smile falters. Just a hair. “I’ll find you later, sweetheart,” he mutters, stepping back.

Sadie doesn’t respond. She’s too still. Too quiet. Christian mutters something else under his breath, but I don’t care. I’m not listening. My focus is entirely on the woman in my arms. She’s trembling again.

I draw her away from the pillar, guiding her gently toward the corner of the ballroom where the shadows are thicker and the music isn’t so sharp. I wait until we’re mostly alone—just the edge of a ficus and a linen-draped table between us and the rest of the party—and then I shift, hands cupping her face.

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