The grand ballroom is alight with opulence—gold chandeliers, shimmering silks, nobles swaying to a waltz played by trembling musicians. But the air is thick with something else, something sharp. The moment Callisto’s gloved hand clasps hers, the entire world narrows to the space between them.

He leads with precision, a predator’s grace, his crimson eyes never leaving hers. “Strange,” he muses, voice silk hiding steel. “You haven’t run yet.”

She meets his gaze, unyielding. “Should I?”

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Most do.”

The music swells, their movements a dangerous rhythm. Every turn, every step, every brush of fingertips is a game neither wants to lose. He spins her effortlessly, fingers tightening at her waist as he pulls her close—too close. His breath ghosts against her ear.

“Do you know what I do to people who make me weak?” His voice is velvet laced with poison, the whisper of a blade unsheathed.

She doesn’t look away, doesn’t shrink under the weight of his words. A mistake.

His grip on her waist tightens, barely perceptible. “I rid myself of them.” A statement. Cold. Final.

“A swift cut,” he murmurs, turning them in time with the rhythm. “A clean break. Mercy, if I’m feeling generous.”

She exhales evenly. “And if you’re not?”

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Then I watch them fall apart.”

A cruel declaration. A warning. But he doesn’t let her go. Doesn’t step back. And that, more than anything, betrays him.

She tilts her chin, a challenge. “And yet… here we are.”

His jaw clenches. For a split second, his hold falters—so brief it would be imperceptible to anyone else. But she feels it.

The final notes of the waltz draw near, the world poised on a single moment.

Callisto lowers his head, breath warm against her ear. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, each syllable slow, drawn out like a death sentence, “I have not decided what to do with you yet.”

A pause. Then, quieter—almost to himself—“Or perhaps I already know.”