Page 30 of Dance of Defiance

…It’s “why the fuck does it piss me off so much, and why do I feel like someone is taking somethingthat belongs to me”.

Why the fuck do I feel so goddamn possessive about him?

“That’s tonight?”

Brooklyn nods. “Yeah. So, sorry, I’ll be sipping bubbly with a slightly fancier crowd.” She winks at me. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I say lightly, the wheels starting to turn. “This thing is fancy?”

She nods. “Black tie. Why?”

Don’t.

Stop it.

It’s not that I’m crazy—not in the diagnosable sense. It’s just that sometimes…

Okay, fuck it, I’ll go full cliché after all.

Sometimes, itdoesfeel like there are two wolves inside me. One is normal Val, who smiles at people on the street, expresses himself through dance, and holds doors for little old ladies. The other is a god of hedonism, chaos, and vice. Furthermore, at times, those opposing forces will…argue with each other.

Loudly.

Like right now.

One side—the “good” side—is telling me to fucking leave it be. Roman is clearly confused, andobviouslyhas issues that he needs to work through before he marries some poor girl who—I assume—wants a heterosexual husband, babies, all that shit.

But the other side is…not shutting the fuck up.

That side, the side that’s feeling a possessiveness I have no fucking right to feel, starts scheming.

And in the end, that’s the side that wins out.

“Oh, no reason,” I smile at Brooklyn. “Unrelated question: is Evie bringing anyone to this shindig?”

Spoiler:Evie wasn’t. But she is now.

I know this is probably crossing a line. At the very least, it’s involving myself in something I shouldn’t. Roman’s issues are his own. And however fucking hot it was to tackle him to the ground in the woods and feel his big cock get all hot and hard for me, and however much he turns me on…showing up to his fuckingengagementparty is a supremely shitty decision.

And yet, here we are.

Evelina’s father’s house isalwaysdripping with luxury and power. But tonight, they’ve gone all out. Limos, supercars, and armored SUVs form a line outside the front gates, and armed, violent-looking motherfuckers with earpieces and scowls scan the rooftops and quietly size everyone up as they file in.

Two of the fuckers glare at me as I make my way up the front steps, a shit-eating grin on my face.

“No,” one of them growls in a thick Russian accent. “Turn around, now.”

I have no idea what the guy’s name is, but we’ve met. I’ve been to Evie’s house like a million times.

He clearly doesn’t give a shit about that.

I clear my throat and flash an even wider grin. “I think you’ll find that I’m on the guest list. I’m Ms. Nikitin’s date for the evening.”

I show them my ID. The familiar-looking guy glares at it, then glances down at the tablet in his hand sourly and nods to his buddy.

“All good, Mr. Bancroft. Please enjoy your evening.”

I smile broadly as I adjust my bowtie and strut past them, shoving the voice screaming “no straight boys” into a box and slamming the lid down.