Page 30 of Savage Stalkers
“Who says I don’t belong here? Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
He spins me expertly across the floor, and I catch a glimpse of my mom watching us. Zay is certainly handsome enough to meet her standards. At the edge of the dance floor, Preston looks on in annoyance. I also spot Kain, watching us with an expression I can’t read, his jaw clenched and his hands balled at his sides.
“You’re causing a scene,” I murmur.
“Good. You looked like you needed rescuing from Prince Charming.”
“I can handle Preston.”
“I’m sure you can, but you shouldn’t have to.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me look up. “Zay?”
“Your mother’s coming,” he says. “Time for me to make my exit.”
Before I can ask what exactly he means, he spins me one last time and dips me low, his face inches from mine, his eyes locked on my lips.
“Until next time, pumpkin,” he murmurs, then pulls me upright and disappears into the crowd.
I’m left standing alone on the edge of the dance floor as Mom reaches me. “You didn’t tell me you’ve met someone. I wouldn’t have been so pushy if I’d known.”
Of course she would have. When she finds out he isn’t someone who will benefit her, she will forbid any relationship between us.
“We barely know each other,” I say, which isn’t a lie. I can’t exactly tell her how we met.
“Well, you should get to know him better.”
Before I can answer, Preston materializes beside us. “I believe you promised me the next dance.”
I force a smile. “Of course.”
But as he leads me back into the center of the floor, I can’t stop scanning the crowd.
Kain is still at his post, but his eyes follow my every move. Silas has shifted from the serving station, but I catch glimpses of his dark hair moving through the crowd. And Zay is nowhere to be seen. Why does it feel like more than a coincidence that they are all here tonight?
The evening blurs into a parade of polite conversation. Preston finds every excuse to touch me, guiding me by the small of my back, his fingers lingering on my arm when he introduces me to his friends, his hand possessively placed on my waist as we stand talking to other couples.
“Skye’s studying psychology,” he tells the Whitmores, his arm sliding around my waist. “Though I’m sure she’ll have other priorities soon enough.”
“We’ve only just met,” I say while trying to step out of his embrace.
“Sometimes you just know,” he says, the stench of alcohol clouding his breath. “Don’t you think, sweetheart?”
The casual use of the endearment when we’ve only known each other mere hours makes me want to punch him in his stupid face.
When dinner is announced, Preston pulls out my chair with exaggerated chivalry, then leans down to whisper, “You’re even more beautiful than your mother described.”
Throughout the meal, his hand rests on my thigh under the table. When I try to shift it away, his grip tightens. During the speeches about the charity we’re here to support, his thumb traces circles on my leg through the fabric of my dress. I hate every second.
“I need some air,” I whisper when dessert is served.
“Perfect,” Preston says, standing. “The gardens are much more private.”
The way he emphasizes “private” sets off warning bells, but Mom is watching us, and the last thing I want is to cause a scene.
The garden is strung with fairy lights, and under different circumstances, it might be romantic. But Preston’s hand is immediately back on my lower back, and he’s steering me away from the main path toward a more secluded area near the rosebushes.
“This is better,” he says, turning to face me. “No audience.”
