Page 62 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

Heads turn across the ballroom, the kind of place ripped from an old movie, where queens once danced over marble floors. My breath catches, and for a split second, I feel the old fear creep in. A squeeze of Enrico's hand is all it takes. I look up and instantly remember: I'm his.

And now? That's exactly what I feel like I am.

The hush doesn't last long. Applause breaks out, soft and admiring, as we descend the staircase. Izzy beams beside me, and even Eliza looks impressed. Sabine trails behind, her smile frozen in place, but I refuse to let the shadow dim my light.

"Thank you," I whisper to Enrico.

He leans in, brushing his lips against my temple. "You belong here, Cat. You always did. They just didn't see it."

At the base of the stairs, beneath the glittering chandeliers and centuries-old frescoes, a man waits. "Grigori Arsenyev, our host," Enrico whispers in my ear.

If the palace is a fairytale, he's the dragon guarding the gate.

He stands still as marble, dressed in a flawlessly tailored midnight tuxedo with a black silk tie, no embellishment, no flair, just the clean precision of a man who needs no introduction.

His eyes are pale, glacial, and so unreadable they might as well be carved from quartz.

Handsome in that devastating, old-world way, with sharp cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, and a cold, cruel mouth.

And yet no one in the room could mistake his stillness for gentleness.

Grigori radiates power—controlled, deliberate, and coiled like a serpent just beneath the surface. Every movement he makes is calculated, every silence heavier than most men's threats. There's nothing wild about him, nothing reckless. His danger is precise. Measured and very lethal.

"Grigori," Enrico says with easy confidence, clasping the Russian's hand. "Good to see you."

Grigori inclines his head. "Sartori."

Enrico turns slightly. "This is my fiancée, Catalina Costa."

Grigori's eyes land on me, sharp and assessing. I fight the instinct to lower my gaze. Instead, I meet him straight on. His expression doesn't change. But the tiniest flicker of something—approval? amusement?—moves behind his arctic gaze.

"Miss Costa," he says, his voice a rich Russian bass, low and composed. "Welcome."

He gestures to the woman at his side. "This is my wife." He offers no first name—just wife .

She is tall. Regal. Her hair is pulled back in a braided twist, revealing a long neck and bare shoulders. Her dress clings in all the right places—cinched waist, wide hips, impossible elegance. She doesn't speak, doesn't smile, but her presence is a thunderclap of femininity and royalty.

When Grigori looks at her, the edges of his face soften, not much, but enough to be noticeable. The chill of him melts just enough to show that beneath the killer is a man who would destroy worlds for the woman beside him. Suddenly, I understand him more than I expected to.

"Mrs. Arsenyev," Enrico nods with polite deference.

She offers a single nod in return, her eyes lingering on Enrico with interest before sliding to me. Another nod. Measured. Like a verdict quietly delivered. Then she steps back, allowing Grigori to resume control of the moment.

"Where's Toni?" Enrico asks.

Grigori's expression hardens again. "Wasn't able to make it," he says simply, not offering any elaboration or apology.

"That's too bad," Enrico says.

Loud laughter makes Enrico go still. His eyes narrow as he searches for the source. Grigori breaks out into loud, knowing laughter, "She's not here."

She ?

Possessiveness and jealousy run through me like an unwelcome blade. What kind of woman makes Enrico flinch?

He wipes his brow mockingly, wiping nonexistent sweat off it. "Oh, thank God."

"What did you do now?" Grigori is still laughing.

Enrico exhales like he just dodged a sniper round. "I didn't do anything. I just didn't want to find a knife in my back tonight."

Grigori's grin sharpens. "She's in South America. Finishing a job."

He doesn't elaborate. Enrico mutters under his breath, "She always finishes her jobs."

Then he gently presses my back to move us on so the Arsenyevs can greet the next group of guests.

"She?" I ask, unable to stop my curiosity. "Who's she ?"

Enrico's jaw flexes. "Grigori's sister," he explains in a tone that sounds like a warning. "Oksana."

With a smirk that can't hide that the woman both impresses and shocks him, he continues, "She once stabbed a man with a dessert fork at a diplomatic gala. Didn't even spill her champagne."

I blink. "Why?"

He chuckles. "Because he called her devushka like she was a helpless girl. She doesn't like being underestimated." And then, under his breath, "She was sixteen."

"Oh," I don't know what else to say.

"Grigori has this training camp for his soldiers. Oksana was sneaking in there for years, taking lessons without Grigori's knowledge. She's as unhinged as her brother."

I stare at Enrico, surprised. He could have fooled me; when he introduced Grigori, it sounded like they were friends. He senses my confusion, "Don't get me wrong, I like Grigori, and I respect the hell out of him and his sister, but whenever I'm around either… I find it's better to watch my back."

A shiver moves down my spine, and I look around at the assembled people with different eyes.

Enrico kisses the side of my head, "No worries, I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to spoil the ball for you. Nothing is going to happen tonight."

The ballroom buzzes with laughter and low conversations, crystal glasses clink, champagne bubbles in delicate flutes, and the rustle of satin and silk brushes against marble floors.

The energy is electric, polite, but undeniably powerful.

And it doesn't take long for me to get lost in the glamor and extravagance of it again.

I haven't forgotten Enrico's words, though.

I stay close to him, and he keeps his hand firmly and steadily planted at the small of my back, like an anchor.

We move through the crowd like we belong here.

Like I belong here.

And for the first time, I don't feel like I'm pretending.

I'm aware of the eyes. Curious, assessing, some with interest, others with suspicion.

But none linger long, not when Enrico's gaze is a silent dare to anyone who does.

He doesn't have to raise his voice or bare his teeth.

His presence alone is enough to demand distance, to draw borders no one dares to cross.

Still, that doesn't stop a few women from trying.

I catch them, elegant, poised, lips painted a deep, glossy red, casting sidelong glances at him.

One reaches up to adjust the strap of her silk gown with calculated casualness, her gaze drags down Enrico's body like she's already unzipping him with her eyes.

Another throws her head back in an exaggerated laugh at something he says—never mind that it wasn't funny—and touches his arm lightly, too familiarly, like she thinks she might be able to leave fingerprints on my man.

And yes. My man.

A slow burn coils in my stomach. Not insecurity, nothing soft or uncertain like that, but something more primal. Fierce. Sharp.

Possessiveness.

It stuns me a little. I've never felt this before. I never wanted to be the kind of woman who sharpens her smile just enough to draw blood if someone flirts too close to what's hers.

Until now.

I lean in closer, resting my hand on Enrico's forearm. He glances at me immediately, distracted from whatever business nod he was about to give across the room. His eyes search mine, alert and focused, and the corners of his mouth curve just slightly when he sees the heat there.

He knows.

A flicker of something dark and satisfied passes through his gaze, and he instinctively shifts his body toward mine, drawing the line clearer. His thumb brushes my hand, slow and deliberate—a silent reassurance, and a very loud claim.

Back off. She's mine.

But what no one sees is that it's mutual .

He's mine, too.

God help any woman who thinks she can lay her claws on him. I never thought of myself as territorial. But maybe love— love? —changes you. Or maybe it just reveals you. All I know is, this man is not up for negotiation.

A low, deep gong reverberates through the room like something out of a dream. All the murmuring stills for a moment and then resumes in a current of graceful motion as people begin making their way to another room.

Enrico leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Dinner," he murmurs. "This way."

His fingers thread through mine, and together we walk through a gilded and glowing corridor.

The lighting here is the same as it was in the other room, intimate.

It leads into a dining room so beautiful it could've been plucked straight from a royal palace.

Hundreds of candles flicker in tall golden candelabras.

The ceiling stretches above us with ornate frescoes and chandeliers that catch the light like fire.

Tables stretch the length of the room, elegant and endless, gleaming with crystal and expensive china.

He leads me to a place near the front, where my name catches the candlelight in delicate gold script: Miss Catalina Costa.

My throat tightens.

Enrico pulls out my chair with quiet ceremony and helps me into it. I sit, stunned. The table is fit for queens, the plates white and gold, rimmed in the softest blush pink. Napkins folded like lilies. Silverware so polished I can see my reflection. I don't say a word. I can't.

Across from me, Izzy is already charming a tall, handsome Russian; her laughter rings like champagne. Sabine is deep in conversation with a dark-haired man in an exquisitely tailored tuxedo, her body angled toward him in that unconscious way that means I'm very interested .

Enrico's hand brushes mine under the table.

"You're quiet," he says softly, searching my face.