Page 17 of The Dante (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #1)

A SHIVER traced down Jazz’s spine, aslow, creeping sensation that had nothing to do with the cool evening air and everything to do with the strength of unseen eyes.

Instinctively, her shoulders tensed, her grip on Titus’s fingers tightening just slightly before she forced herself to relax.

Her gaze flicked to the periphery, searching for something—someone—lurking just beyond the dazzle of flashing cameras and glittering jewels.

But there was nothing obvious, just the carefully curated chaos of the event.

Even so, the unease remained, twisting low in her stomach like an unspoken warning.

It was instinctive, primal—awarning slithering beneath her skin, heightening her senses even as she forced her posture to remain poised.

The energy around them had shifted, the buzz of conversation and flashing cameras doing little to drown out the undercurrent of something deeper, something watchful.

She didn’t know why, not yet, but her body recognized the threat before her mind could nameit.

Then, just as they reached the first set of steps leading to the entrance, Titus shifted, angling her slightly away from the flashing bulbs. His fingers pressed into her waist, asubtle redirect, ashield.

She frowned, casting a questioning glance up at him. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes flicked toward the periphery—toward a cluster of figures lingering just beyond the chaos of the press.

Not reporters.

Not guests.

Feds.

Her stomach tightened. How did she even know that?

The thought came unbidden, aquiet whisper in the back of her mind.

They weren’t dressed in uniform, but Jazz recognized the posture, the way they stationed themselves at strategic points, observing rather than participating.

Monitoring, cataloguing. She hadn’t seen badges, hadn’t overheard anything, but somehow, sheknew.

A flicker of unease hit her. Was she just assuming? Reading too much into shadows at the edge of the night? Or had she picked up on something instinctual, something buried in the spaces between Titus’s carefully chosen words and subtle shifts in direction?

“Who are they?” she murmured, tilting her face toward him in a way that made it seem like nothing more than an intimate whisper between husband andwife.

Titus didn’t look at her. Instead, he reached for her hand, fingers lacing through hers as they climbed the steps in unison. The warmth of his grip steadied, as if mooring her to him in the swirl of flashing cameras and watchfuleyes.

She had always known he was hyper-aware of his surroundings, but there was something different about the way he shielded her now—deliberate, practiced.

Was it simply another way of asserting dominance in a world that demanded constant vigilance?

Or was it something more? Aresponse to a threat she hadn’t yet seen, asilent message to someone observing?

The thought unsettled her, making her suddenly aware of just how little she understood the depths of his instincts. It wasn’t just dominance. It was protection. And that realization sent a strange, unfamiliar heat burning low in her stomach.

“They’re people who like to watch,” he finally replied. He spared her a brief glance. “Feds.”

His tone was casual, dismissive even, but Jazz wasn’t fooled. It was a warning. Aquiet reminder that, even here—among luxury and champagne, among people who traded influence like currency—there were those waiting. Waiting for a misstep. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

She swallowed hard but kept her expression smooth. If he wasn’t rattled, she wouldn’t be either.

Instead, she tightened her grip on his fingers, the warmth of his skin giving her an intense feeling of security as they crossed the threshold together.

The strain of the evening settled over her, the air inside thick with the scent of expensive cologne and aged whiskey.

She kept her posture smooth, composed, but the tension drumming beneath her skin remained, an awareness that something unseen lurked just beyond the glittering facade of the gala.

With each step forward, she reminded herself—this was a game, and she would play itwell.

The lobby was a breathtaking expanse of gold-trimmed elegance, vaulted ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers that refracted light like a cascade of diamonds. Servers in white gloves wove through the arriving guests, offering glasses of champagne on silver trays.

Titus released her hand only to slide his palm to the small of her back again, guiding her forward with the same quiet command he always carried.

He leaned in, his voice low. “They won’t follow us inside. Not yet.”

Jazz arched a brow but didn’t press. Not here. Not in theopen.

They moved past clusters of guests exchanging air kisses and artificial pleasantries, past couples who paused to admire their own reflections in the mirrored walls.

Every step carried an unspoken expectation—this wasn’t just a gala.

It was a battlefield. Every conversation, every handshake, every glance held layers of meaning.

And somewhere in this room, she knew, was theirhost.

Senator Vex.

She hadn’t seen him yet, but she felt it—an invisible pressure, ashift in the air that signaled his presence before her eyes could confirm it.

Her breath caught, just for a moment, before she forced herself to keep walking, her stride even, unhurried.

Instinct whispered at her to glance around, to search for him in the crowd, but she resisted.

Looking for him would mean acknowledging him, and she wasn’t ready to give him that satisfaction.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders, letting the sensation of being watched settle over her like a second skin.

She wasn’t prey, and she wouldn’t let him think otherwise.

The feeling of inevitability pressed against her, apulse of awareness she couldn’t shake.

The undercurrent of tension threaded through the evening, winding toward an unavoidable moment, drawing her closer with every step, every breath, every carefully measured glance cast into the crowd.

Senator Vex was here. Watching. Waiting.

Titus stopped at a cluster of attendees near the silent auction tables, effortlessly folding into conversation, his voice smooth, lowkey. Jazz excused herself with a soft smile, stepping toward one of the displays—aselection of rare whiskeys and spirits up forbid.

She trailed her fingers lightly over the plaque in front of one particular bottle, the amber liquid inside catching the warm glow of the chandeliers above. The label was worn but unmistakable—an aged reserve, ararity even among collectors.

Titus’s favorite.

A knowing smile played at her lips, aquiet sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. He had a taste for the best, always gravitating toward quality over showmanship.

This was something she could do for him—something that wasn’t about politics, clever maneuvers, or the careful game they were both navigating. It was personal.

She reached for the bidding sheet, the fine paper crisp beneath her fingertips, intent on securing it for him.

With a smooth, deliberate stroke, she recorded her bid, the ink drying almost instantly against the pristine surface.

The thought of surprising him with it, of seeing that flicker of appreciation in his gaze, sent a small pulse of warmth through her, filling her with the rare pleasure of doing something for him without expectation or design.

Then a shadow fell across the table.

A presence. Intentional. Calculated.

A hand, casual but deliberate, placed a bid higher thanhers.

Jazz turned.

Alistair Vex stood beside her, his lips curved in a smile that didn’t touch hiseyes.

“Mrs. Dante. Or maybe I’ll just call you Jazz,” he said smoothly, with an air of presumption, as if they were already familiar, as if he had some right to address her so casually. “Enjoying your evening?”

The words were polished, meticulously chosen, but the undercurrent beneath them was anything but cordial. There was a heft behind them, apremeditated edge that pressed into the space between them, daring her to misstep.

Jazz held his gaze, her expression unreadable. “It’s a lovely event, Senator.”

He inclined his head, the barest tilt, but it was a predator’s movement. “That’s good to hear. After all, it’s important that you enjoy yourself.” His lips curved slightly. “Even if others hold the reins.”

Jazz stiffened, her fingers gripped around the pen.

Aslow exhale escaped her lips, measured, careful.

She could feel the intention of his words pressing against her, heavy with unspoken intent.

He wanted a reaction, afalter, even the slightest indication that his words had unsettled her. But she refused to give himthat.

Instead, she let the tension settle, let it stretch between them like a taut wire, waiting to be plucked.

Her fingers brushed the cool surface of the table, holding hers in the moment, in the game unfolding between them.

She had been raised around men who wielded clout like a blade, who understood the nuances of leverage.

And she understood something now—Alistair Vex was no different.

He expected her to yield, to shrink beneath his carefully constructed authority.

But Jazz Dante didn’t shrink for anyone.

She set the pendown.

Met his gaze.

And smiled.

Even if others hold the reins? Is that he truly thought? “Somehow,” she murmured, “I doubt that.”

His eyes gleamed with something biting, something vaguely amused.