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“One dance,” I concede, the words sharp as razor wire. “Then you leave.”

He guides me down the remaining stairs, his hand never leaving my back, and I feel every eye in the room following us. The orchestra’s waltz seems to swell as we reach the dance floor, and Marco turns me to face him, one hand capturing mine, the other settling at my waist.

We move together with the practiced ease of a couple who have learned each other’s bodies intimately. I hate how naturalit feels, how my body remembers the steps even as my mind rebels.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, guiding me through a turn. “Setting fires. Stealing weapons. Playing at being a queen.”

“Not playing,” I correct him, my fingernails digging into his shoulder just enough to tear at the cloth. “Becoming.”

His jaw tightens, the only sign that I’ve touched a nerve. “Do you have any idea what you’ve started? The forces you’re messing with? This isn’t a game, Aria.”

“No,” I agree, “it’s justice. Long overdue.”

He pulls me closer, our bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, his heat enveloping me. “Is that what you tell yourself to justify killing six of my men?”

“Your father murdered my entire family,” I hiss, the words like venom on my tongue. “He butchered them like animals. And you protected him, Marco. You chose him.”

Pain flickers across his face, so raw it almost seems genuine. “I tried to protect you. Both of you. I’ve been keeping my father from finding you for weeks.”

“How noble,” I spit. “Should I be grateful that the son of my family’s killer didn’t immediately hand me over to be executed? That he merely lied to me while fucking me in the same house where my parents’ murder was planned?”

His hand tightens on my waist, hard enough to bruise. “Don’t,” he warns, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that once sent delicious shivers down my spine. “Don’t reduce what was between us to fucking. You know it was more.”

“I know nothing about you,” I counter, trying to ignore the heat spreading through my lower belly. “I never did.”

He guides me toward the edge of the dance floor, into the shadow of a marble column.

“You know exactly who I am. You know how I make you feel—especially when I’m this close. And that’s what terrifies you, isn’t it?”

I try to pull away as the music ends, but his grip is iron, unyielding. “Let me go, Marco.”

Instead, he backs me against the column, his body caging mine. We’re partially hidden from the main floor here, but still visible enough that any violent outburst would cause a scene. Clever bastard.

“You don’t belong in this world,” he says, his voice softening to a caress that brushes against my skin like velvet. “Not the way you’re trying to enter it. You think these people respect you? They’re using you, Aria. You’re a tool—a figurehead they can rally behind to challenge my father’s power.”

“As opposed to being your tool?” I laugh, but it comes out breathless as his hand slides to my hip, fingers tracing the slit in my gown. “At least I know where I stand with them.”

His fingers find bare skin, and despite my rage, despite my hatred, my body gives me away with a shiver.

“Do you?” he asks, his lips brushing my ear. “Do you really think Ettore Greco cares about you? Or is he settling old scores using your name as his banner?”

I move to push him away, but when my palms meet the solid wall of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath expensive wool, I stall.

“You want me, don’t you?” he whispers against my ear.

“Never,” I hiss, even though I feel myself weaken, long for him. “And you don’t know anything about Ettore.”

“I know everything about everyone in this room,” Marco counters, tracing the curve of my thigh beneath my dress. “Including the fact that three of your new ‘allies’ still pay my father protection money.”

I hate how easily he plants seeds of doubt, how skillfully he wields information as a weapon. “Stop it,” I whisper, but my body arches into his touch, seeking more.

He stops.

“You know where you belong,” he whispers. “Doesn’t matter how far you run—you’ll always end up right here.” His voice is a hypnotic murmur as his fingers stay etched into my skin where I told him to stop. God, I want him to drift higher, to find the edge of my lace underwear.

“You belong with me,” he says, dipping his head until I feel his nose brush against my cheek as he whispers right into my ear. “In my bed. Under me. Around me. You know it. Your body knows it.”

“I hate you,” I manage to whisper, even as my hips roll against his crotch, seeking more contact.