His hand slides to your waist like he owns the damn privilege. The velvet of his gloves presses against the skin just beneath your ribs, and you pretend it doesn’t burn. You’re already regretting this. The moment you stepped into the gilded chaos of the masquerade gala, wrapped in silk and lies, you knew posing as Butcher’s date would be hell. But this? This is war. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Smile, sweetheart. You look like you’re one bad joke away from stabbin’ me with your heel.”

You smile. “That’s because I am.” His laugh rumbles low in his chest. You hate how good he looks in a tux. You hate the way he smells and you hate that he keeps touching you like he’s forgotten you can bite. Still, you play the part. Because the mission matters and people are watching. Because you’d rather die than let him know how this game is starting to unravel you.

He offers his hand. “Care to dance?” You hesitate for a second too long. “C’mon, love. Don’t make it weird,” he murmurs. “We’re so good at pretendin’, let’s not stop now.” You slip your hand into his. It’s warm. The music swells around you as he pulls you into the dance floor. His grip is firm, close, possessive. One hand slides down to the small of your back. You nearly flinch.

“I can’t decide if you’re doing this to provoke me or to prove something,”

“Why not both?” he murmurs, lips dangerously close to your cheek. “You look real pretty when you’re pissed.”

You clench your jaw. “If you keep touching me like that, I’m going to break your nose in front of everyone.”

He smirks. “You won’t. Would ruin the illusion.” You hate that he’s right. You spin. You dip. You let him lead. But the heat is building. And when he pulls you a little too close during the final turn, your lips nearly brush his jaw. He whispers, “If this is fake, you shoulda won an Oscar.”