The dress is tight, the heels hurt, and Butcher’s arm around your waist feels like a steel trap. “Smile,” he mutters through clenched teeth, lips barely moving. “You look like you’d rather be strangling someone.”

“I am,” you reply sweetly, baring your teeth in what might pass as a smile for the champagne-clinking elites surrounding you. “He’s got his arm glued to my ass.”

His fingers twitch slightly at your side, but he doesn’t remove them. If anything, he pulls you in closer, the move smooth, too convincing. To anyone watching, you’re the perfect picture of a couple too infatuated to care about the rest of the room.

“You said undercover,” you whisper as you lean in for show. “You didn’t say ‘under your goddamn thumb.’”

Butcher chuckles, low and sardonic. “You’d rather be paired with someone soft, yeah? Maybe that poncy CIA prick from last week?”

“Please,” you scoff, sipping your drink. “Even pretending to be married to you was more appealing.”

Then someone approaches. Tall. Wealthy. Arrogant. Handsy. Their gaze lingers on your neckline, then dips lower, and lower. Butcher’s posture changes instantly. The possessiveness that seeps in when the stranger reaches for your arm. Butcher’s hand slides up your waist, slow and claiming, and he’s leaning down like he’s about to kiss your neck.

“Careful, mate,” he says, voice low, sharp as a blade. “That one’s taken.”

“Didn’t look like she minded.”

You open your mouth, ready to deliver a scathing reply—when Butcher beats you to it. “She’s polite,” he says. “I’m not.”

The stranger retreats, muttering something about finding more receptive company. But you barely register it—because Butcher’s still holding you, his grip firm, his breath hot against your ear.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, but not gently. He’s still wired, still ready to snap necks for touching what’s his—even if it isn’t really.

You exhale, lips parting. “I can handle myself.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over the curve of your hip like it’s part of the role.