Chapter 55 #2
By the third hour, I have counted seventeen times he has looked at me with that expression.
Seventeen times too many. The ghosts are getting more aggressive too—another glass falls, this time directly in front of Klaus's plate.
A candle goes out in a gust of freezing air that has no source.
The chandelier above our table flickers violently enough that people start glancing up nervously.
Drogo leans close, his lips brushing my ear. "Are you okay?" he whispers.
"Your father keeps staring at me," I whisper back. "It is getting worse."
I feel him go rigid. "How many times?"
"Seventeen. That I have caught."
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump. "Stay close to me. Do not leave this table for any reason."
"Wasn't planning on it," I mutter.
The music shifts—the slow balalaika fading into something faster, heavier, with a driving beat that pounds through the floor like a second heartbeat.
Several men stand immediately, pushing chairs back with sharp scrapes against marble, clearing space in the center of the room.
They form a circle, and I watch them stomp once in unison—a sound like thunder that makes the crystal glasses rattle.
Klaus leans forward, his smile sharp as a blade. "Drogo," he says, loud enough for every person in this room to hear. "Show your bride how a real man moves. Lead the dance. Prove you are worthy of her."
It is not a request. It is a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet, and everyone here knows exactly what it means. Dance well, prove your strength, or be humiliated in front of the entire Bratva.
Drogo stands slowly, rolling his shoulders once—a movement so subtle most people would miss it, but I know what it means. He is preparing. Not for dancing. For war disguised as celebration.
He catches my eye for just a second, and the look he gives me makes my stomach flip.
Dark. Intense. Promising violence and pleasure in equal measure.
He empties his vodka in one go and then he turns and walks to the center of the circle like he owns it—like he owns this entire damn room—and every eye follows him.
His suit jacket comes off first, tossed to Konstantin without looking, and he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows with deliberate slowness.
The movement exposes those tattooed forearms—full of veins, Cyrillic script, and all that ink that marks him as Bratva.
The dim light catches on his skin, and I can already see the shift in his posture, the coiled power in every muscle.
The men begin—stomping, clapping, building a rhythm that pulses through my chest. Drogo joins them, and holy hell, I was not prepared for this.
He moves with controlled aggression, every step precise, every kick sharp.
His whole body is a weapon—controlled, disciplined, absolutely devastating.
When the fuck did he learn to dance? He couldn’t even pull off the macarena!
Then he really starts. High kicks that show impossible flexibility and strength, his leg snapping up so fast I barely track the movement.
Squats that drop him low—thighs flexing, ass tight in those fitted pants—before he explodes back up like a coiled spring released.
Spins that are controlled and brutal, his body rotating with perfect balance while his eyes stay locked on one point: me.
Sweat starts to bead on his forehead, his neck, dampening his shirt until the fabric clings to his chest and shoulders.
I can see the outline of every muscle, can watch them flex and shift as he moves, and my mouth goes dry.
He is not just dancing—he is dominating.
Claiming the space. Proving to every man here that he is stronger, faster, more controlled than any of them could hope to be.
The other men try to keep up. Viktor attempts a high kick and barely gets his foot above waist height.
Dmitri manages a squat but wobbles slightly on the rise.
But Drogo moves like violence set to music, like sex wrapped in aggression, like every filthy fantasy I have ever had made flesh and put on display for eighty people to witness.
And he never stops looking at me. Even when he spins.
Even when he drops low or kicks high. His eyes find mine every single time, dark and hot and full of promise.
He is not dancing for Klaus or for the Bratva or for tradition.
He is dancing for me. Showing me exactly what this body can do.
Reminding me what it feels like when all that strength and control is focused entirely on making me lose my mind.
Yeah, if we live tonight, I am gonna make him a father.
I am so wet I can feel it soaking through my underwear. Right here. At this table. Surrounded by eighty people. Watching my fiancé move like sin incarnate, and all I can think about is him using that same powerful body to pin me down and make me scream.
I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together, trying to find some relief from the ache building between my legs. It does not help. Nothing helps. He does another squat—slow, controlled, his thighs spreading wide—and I actually bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I am not the only one affected. I catch movement from the corner of my eye and glance over to see a blonde woman in a red dress three tables away.
Her eyes are locked on Drogo, tracking every movement of his hips, and I watch her cross her legs tight, her hand gripping her champagne glass so hard I am surprised it does not shatter.
Another woman—older, dark-haired, wearing emeralds—has her lips parted slightly, her breathing faster than it should be, her gaze following the line of sweat running down Drogo's neck.
But they are careful. So careful. Their looks are quick, furtive, stolen glances that dart away the moment anyone turns in their direction.
They know the rules. Admiring another man—especially the heir's woman—is dangerous.
Fatal, even. So they look when they think it is safe and pretend interest in their plates or drinks or folded hands when it is not.
A younger guy—one of the cocky ones trying to prove himself—attempts to show off near my end of the table. He is not touching me, not even close, but he is dancing in my line of sight, doing exaggerated spins and kicks like he thinks I might be impressed. Like he thinks this is acceptable.
Drogo sees it. Of course he sees it. His eyes go cold, and in one fluid movement he crosses the space between them, grabs the guy by the back of his neck, and leans in to whisper something in Russian.
I cannot hear the words, but I watch the color drain from the younger man's face.
He nods frantically, backs away, nearly trips over his own feet getting back to his seat.
The message is clear: Look at her wrong and die. Yes. I will give him twins. Damn he is hot. Fuck!
Drogo returns to the center of the circle like nothing happened, and the dance continues.
He spins one final time, drops into a deep squat with his arms spread wide, and rises slowly—so slowly I can count every breath, every flex of muscle, every bead of sweat sliding down his throat.
When he finally stands at full height, chest heaving, shirt soaked through, hair falling slightly out of place, the room erupts.
Men pound tables, shouting approval in Russian and other languages I do not recognize.
They raise glasses, toast shots, slam them back without breaking their applause.
Some of the younger ones look awed. Some of the older ones look grudgingly impressed.
Even Klaus is clapping, though his smile does not reach his eyes.
Drogo grabs his jacket from Konstantin, slings it over his shoulder, and walks straight to me. Not to Klaus. Not to the other men. To me. He leans down, his hand bracing on the back of my chair, bringing his face close enough that I can smell the salt and heat of him.
"You are thinking very dirty thoughts right now," he murmurs in my ear, his voice rough and low. "I can see it all over your face."
I swallow hard. "Shut up."
He smiles—that devastating, dangerous smile that makes my pulse race. "When we get home," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, "I am going to make every single one of those thoughts come true. In detail. Multiple times. Until you are too wrecked to move."
Oh god. I am going to die. Right here. Of sheer want.
“Well, start thinking baby names then,” I whisper and his eyes widen in small surprise he keeps under control.
Then he leans to my ear. “I have a list.” And winks at me. I am pretty sure I came. I can’t check, but I am pretty sure.
He pulls back, presses a kiss to my temple like we are not surrounded by killers, like he did not just promise to ruin me later, and takes his seat beside me.
His hand finds mine under the table, threading our fingers together, and I can feel how hot his skin is, how his pulse is still racing from the exertion.
Klaus stands, raising his glass. "Impressive, my son.
Very impressive." His tone is light, jovial, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes.
Drogo just proved himself stronger, more commanding, more worthy of leadership than Klaus expected.
And that is both exactly what we needed and extremely dangerous.
The temperature drops again—sudden and violent. My breath fogs. The lights flicker. A glass at the far end of the table flies off the edge and shatters, and I feel that familiar presence pressing close, angry and protective.
The ghosts do not like what is coming. Neither do I.
Because Klaus is still smiling that warm, paternal smile, but his eyes have gone cold. And when he speaks again, his voice cuts through the noise like a knife. "Drogo. A word. In private. Now."
Not a request. A command. And everyone in this room knows that whatever happens behind that closed door will determine who walks out alive.
Konstantin shifts close to me. Shit.