Caitlyn
The mask doesn’t fit quite right.
I adjust it for the third time before I’ve even made it past the velvet-draped entrance, tugging at the satin ribbon as though that might stop it from slipping against my cheek.
The silver filigree sparkles beautifully under the chandelier light, but on me it feels like camouflage that might give me away at any second.
“Just survive one night,” I whisper to myself. “How hard can it be?”
I should be in my lab, elbow-deep in soil samples, not here in this fever dream of chandeliers and champagne fountains.
But Callie had begged me. Take the ticket, Cait.
It’s the party of the year. You spend too much time with plants and not enough time with people.
Besides, you look incredible in that dress.
The dress in question clings to me in ways that make me feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s body.
Midnight blue silk hugs my hips, plunges between my breasts, and catches the light when I move.
On Callie, who is taller, slimmer, more athletic, it would have looked effortless.
On me, it feels indecent. Every step sets the fabric sliding against my skin, a constant reminder that I’m too soft in too many places.
But my sister was adamant between sneezes. You need to get out. You need to live.
So here I am, walking into the masquerade ball in borrowed silk and shaking knees. God knows how much the invite cost or why she wanted to attend so badly…so far it’s like any other ostentatious affair she reads about in celebrity magazines.
The hotel ballroom looks like something from a dream.
Crystal chandeliers drip light onto black marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
Masked figures move in elegant patterns, laughter and low voices blending with the music of a string quartet.
The air smells of roses and expensive perfume, undercut with the sharpness of whiskey and cigar smoke.
It’s overwhelming. And dazzling. And terrifying.
I hover near the edge of the crowd, tugging my mask one more time, pretending I’m adjusting it when really I’m trying to buy myself a few seconds to breathe.
Nobody knows me here. Nobody cares that I spend my days cataloguing orchids and muttering Latin names under my breath. Behind this mask, I can be anyone.
Unexpectedly, the thought excites me.
A man in a tuxedo lets his gaze linger openly on my cleavage, and instead of offense, a strange heat coils low in my belly. Another tracks the sway of my hips as I pass, and I find myself swaying a little more, curious at the power thrumming through me.
When did I become the kind of woman who enjoyed being looked at?
I slip toward the floral arrangements lining the wall, grateful for the excuse to retreat. Someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to transform the ballroom into a jungle with towering palms, bursts of orchids, and birds of paradise glowing like jewels.
I breathe easier here. Among plants, I know who I am.
“The Strelitzia reginae are particularly impressive tonight.”
The voice startles me. I turn to find a distinguished man in a raven mask studying the orange-and-blue blossoms. His eyes are kind, sharp, intelligent. Finally, someone I can talk to.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, grateful for the chance to hide behind botany. “Though I’m surprised they’re thriving in this environment.”
“You know your plants.” His smile is warm. “Most of our guests are more interested in other…diversions.” His glance toward the crowd suggests layers I can’t quite parse.
“I’m a botanist,” I explain, then immediately feel silly for blurting it out. Who admits their profession at a party like this? “I don’t usually attend events like this.”
“I imagine not.” His voice lowers. “A woman of science in a room full of men accustomed to taking what they want and women accustomed to giving it. How…dangerous.”
The words send a prickle down my spine. Before I can ask what he means, a younger man appears, urgent, and the gentleman excuses himself with a polite bow.
I’m left with his words echoing in my ears.
Men accustomed to taking what they want. Women accustomed to giving it.
I glance around the room with new eyes. The masks look less like playful disguises and more like shields. The laughter is sharper. The touches linger longer. The air hums with something primal.
And then I feel it.
The unmistakable weight of a stare. Not casual. Not polite. Heavy. Hungry.
My skin prickles. My breath catches. Every nerve ending sparks to life.
I try to ignore it, try to rationalize the sensation as nerves, but my body knows better. This isn’t paranoia. This is recognition. Instinct.
Slowly, I turn.
Across the ballroom, half-hidden by the glittering crowd, he stands. His mask is black leather, simple against the sparkle of the others, but it only makes him more dangerous. His gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board. Dark, unyielding, devouring.
My body answers before my brain does. My nipples harden against silk. Heat blooms between my thighs. My lips part on a breath I can’t catch.
He doesn’t look at me the way other men have tonight. They’ve devoured me like dessert, eager but shallow. He looks at me like prey he’s already claimed. Like the hunt is over, and the taking has begun.
I should look away. I should break the connection before it consumes me.
I don’t.
Something reckless anchors me in place. Behind this mask, I can be someone else. Someone brave enough to meet the gaze of a man like him.
Our eyes lock, and the rest of the world falls away. The music, the laughter, the glitter and shine, all of it dissolves into nothing but the searing line between us.
I don’t know his name. I don’t know what kind of man he is.
But I know, with terrifying certainty, that nothing about my life will be the same after tonight.