The Founders’ Ball was, as always, an exercise in stifling etiquette and itchy lace. But for Aurora Pierce, the real irritation wasn't the corset or the forced small talk—it was the sapphire-eyed shadow that had been trailing her since she stepped through the doors of the Lockwood Mansion.

Aurora adjusted the silk of her emerald gown, a sharp contrast to the velvet darkness of her sister Katherine’s usual palette. She was a Pierce, yes, but she wasn’t a ghost. At least, she tried not to be.

"You’re brooding, Rory. It’s a bad look. Leave the sulking to Stefan; he’s turned it into an art form."

The voice was right at her ear, low and vibrating with a mischief that made the hair on her arms stand up. She didn't turn. She didn't have to. The scent of expensive bourbon and leather told her exactly who was leaning into her space.

"I’m not brooding, Damon," Aurora replied, her voice clipped but smooth. "I’m enjoying the silence. Or I was, until you decided to occupy the three feet of personal space I specifically requested you stay out of."

Damon stepped around her, a smirk playing on his lips that was as dangerous as it was devastating. He held two glasses of champagne, offering one to her with a mock-polite bow.

"I remember no such request. I do, however, remember you saying something about how much you liked this vintage last time we… talked."

"We didn't talk. You talked. I looked for a heavy object to throw at your head," she countered, finally meeting his gaze.

His eyes were bright, dancing with the challenge she threw at him. He loved this—the push and pull, the way she refused to wilt under the intense Salvatore charm. She was Katherine’s blood, but she had a heart that wasn't made of stone, even if she kept it under lock and key.

"Tough crowd," Damon mused, taking a slow sip of his own drink while his eyes scanned her face, lingering just a second too long on her lips. "You look stunning, by the way. Very 'lady of the manor.' It almost hides the fact that you want to rip my throat out right here in front of the Mayor."

Aurora felt that familiar heat rise in her chest—half-annoyance, half-adrenaline. He knew exactly how to needle her, how to provoke that spark of fire she tried so hard to keep dampened.

"Is that your plan for the night? To annoy me until I cause a scene?"

"My plan?" Damon stepped closer, his voice dropping to a seductive rasp as the music shifted to a slower, more deliberate waltz. He set his glass down on a passing waiter’s tray and held out a hand. "My plan is to see how long it takes for you to admit that you've been waiting for me to ask you to dance all night."

Aurora scoffed, but she didn't look away. "In your dreams, Damon."

"Oh, you're in my dreams too, Rory," he whispered, leaning in so close his breath fanned her cheek. "But in those, you’re usually much more agreeable."

She narrowed her eyes, her fingers twitching against her skirts. She should walk away. She should find Stefan or Ric or anyone else. But the way he was looking at her—like she was the only person in the room worth bothering—was a pull she couldn't quite ignore.

"One dance," she warned, placing her hand in his. "And if you step on my toes, I’m stabbing you with a steak knife."

Damon’s smirk widened into a genuine, wicked grin as he pulled her toward the floor. "I’d expect nothing less."