Insufferable, this woman.

She prowled around him, ever nearer, near enough to touch, and Tahl watched her with a shuttered look, feigning indifference. Cross? Was he cross with her? He remembered their last conversation in a flash and his scowl deepened, jaw working silently. Cross!?

Why would he be cross with her? She’d only manipulated him into dropping her straight into Tristan’s bed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled, averting his eyes and taking another, longer sip of that gods-damned bubble piss. Foul. Fouler still: none of these diversions fooled her. She was toying with him (she was always toying with him) and baiting him (she was always baiting him) and even knowing this, Tahl fell right into her snare. Silly rabbit. His eyes slid back to hers, inexorably. Her gaze was fire-bright but open, apparently artless, but this too was a trick to tie him into knots. He was sure of it. So he didn’t answer, even as he watched her. Hypnotized.

Then she smirked. He grunted in reply, shaking his head as if to dislodge her spell. It was becoming an interrogation – he thought she’d make a good investigator, or spy, or mob boss, if she weren’t so busy being a pain in his ass. He didn’t dare answer her questions, barely dared look at her when she brought up the island. Even such an oblique reference made his skin feel too tight. He reached up to loosen his collar before realizing it was already unbuttoned at the top.

Stupid. Easy prey.

But what was Tahl to do? He couldn’t refuse her; he didn’t have the words, or the wiles, or the willpower. He was an instrument she knew exactly how to play, and when she commanded that he danced, he’d dance. There was nothing to do but place the unfinished champagne flute on the table wordlessly, and hold out his hand.

He led her to where others were dancing, looking cool and controlled, almost. Feeling anything but. The musicians were playing something slow, and Tahl edged nearer to her, placing a broad hand on her waist and remembering how easily he could lift her. It was an unsettling, intrusive thought that very likely showed on his face.

They swayed to the music, close but not too close at first, the kind of dancing you could do with your sister. Even that felt too intimate, like holding his hand over a candle’s flame.

“I don’t like feeling like a game you play when you’re bored,” he admitted eventually, softly, unable to look her in the eye when he said it. He looked at her mouth, instead. “Just because you have that kind of power, doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it.”