Chapter 11
THE DANCE I DON’T DESERVE
DOMINIC
Iknew what that asshole Kevin Cahill was doing when he asked me to come to the fucking ball.
He wants to use me now that I have no cover to maintain, no alias to protect, no handler tracking my movements.
I’m here as myself—no filters, no misdirection, no need to disappear halfway through the night.
Back when I was undercover, I kept my exposure tight.
Family only. Controlled environments. Short conversations, no lingering, no personal details volunteered unless they served a purpose.
I met people in Kevin’s orbit, yes—but selectively.
Enough to be familiar, never enough to be memorable.
That’s how you survive in plain sight without leaving a footprint.
But now my name is real. My job is public.
My connections are known. I’ve spent my life managing risk from behind a cover.
Doing it in the open is a different calculus.
This is the part no one trains you for—what happens after you stop lying.
Because the moment I stopped being undercover, I became exposed.
And Kevin Cahill knows it. He’s heard the chatter—how I walked away right after the op, how I didn’t stick the landing, how I burned a career for reasons that don’t line up on paper. He’s smart enough to connect that to Enya. Smart enough to test me where everyone can see.
It’s a risk to be visible this soon. I’ve made enemies. I’ve ruined people who don’t forgive or forget. I was advised to keep a low profile, to reemerge slowly. Definitely not to show up at the Hamilton Fellowship Ball, where every D.C. leech with a memory and a grudge congregates.
But how can Enya trust me—trust anything I say—if I keep operating like I still have something to hide?
The second she steps away from me, I know I can’t let her go.
Part of me knows I should give her space. I should let her breathe—let her heal.
But that part is small—the rest of me is impatient to have her where she belongs, which is with me.
I’ve spent months pretending I didn’t need her—but I don’t have to do that anymore, I can claim the truth…that I’m in love with her.
Madly. Completely. Irretrievably.
I grab her arm. “Dance with me, baby,” I whisper, my mouth brushing her ear. She smells like lavender, mingled with everything that’s Enya. Sweet. Subtle. Magical.
“Nick,” Enya hisses, eyes flashing. “Let me go.”
I keep my voice low. “One dance, baby. They’re playing our song.”
“We don’t have a song,” she reminds me tightly.
“Sure, we do.” I take her hand and lead her onto the dance floor as the singer croons “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak.
I rest one hand at her waist, feeling her warmth.
She flinches.
I pull her closer.
I glance around the room—diplomats, donors, politicians drifting from conversation to conversation like predators in designer shoes.
She’s tight like a drum, and the only reason she’s letting me lead is that she doesn’t want to make a scene. I know that. I’m taking advantage of it.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her.
“I don’t want to do this,” she replies tightly. “Not here.”
I nuzzle her cheek. “You don’t want to do what?”
“Nick.” She stomps one foot on mine.
I swivel her, laughing. “You’re going to have to put a lot more power into that if you want me to lose my grip on you.”
She closes her eyes as if giving up, and dances with me. She is an elegant dancer.
But then everything about her is.
Her name, she told me, is Irish, like her mother. That was part of her dossier; what wasn’t was how her name has deep roots in Irish mythology and carries a sense of tradition, ethereal beauty, and ancient wisdom. She embodies all of that.
“Nick, what do you want?” she asks after a while. I hate how resigned she sounds, how tired.
“I want you, baby.”
She scoffs. “Do you have another op?” Her words drip with sarcasm. I deserve them.
“No op. I’m not lying anymore—or ever—to you. I’m here. As me. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks up at me, her beautiful, warm eyes wide. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to fight for us.”
She gasps. “You’re making no sense.”
I twirl her, and then draw her back to me.
I want to kiss her so badly, taste those pouty lips that are glistening and swollen because she’s been biting them. It’s a nervous habit of hers. I want to soothe the small stings she must be feeling. I want to soothe the big ones in her heart and on her soul.
If only she’ll give me the chance.
“I want us, Enya. I want us to be a couple and—”
“You don’t get to say these things,” she interrupts, shooting me a withering look.
“Maybe not.” I gently brush my lips against her forehead, and pull back to look at her. “But I’m saying them anyway.”
Her eyes flicker—pain, anger, maybe both. The sadness in them wounds me deeper than anything she could say. She loves me. And I hurt her.
My woman. My life. My everything.
Now, she won’t let me take care of her, won’t let me make it better.
I can’t blame her. Trust never came easily to her, not even before me.
After what I did, earning it back feels almost impossible.
I see it in the way she looks at me—not with hope, but with caution, like someone who’s already learned how badly falling can hurt.
My voice cracks. “I can’t stand what I did to you.”
She bristles. “You blew up my life.”
“I’m sorry, Enya, more than you’ll ever know.”
The song ends, and she tries to wrench free of me, but I don’t let her loose. Hell, I just got her in my arms, I’m keeping her here for as long as I can.
“You don’t want to make a scene, Nick.”
“You sure about that?” I give her a measured look. “If it’s the only way you’ll look at me. If it’s the only way you’ll let me talk to you. I will make a scene right here in front of half the damn diplomatic corps.”
Her nostrils flare. “You wouldn’t.”
I arch a brow.
She groans under her breath. “Nick…I…damn it.”
The music turns softer, slower, unfair.
We move together in circles, her gaze fixed over my shoulder, mine locked on her like I’m afraid she’ll disappear again.
“Enya, look at me, sweetheart.”
She reluctantly does so.
“I love you.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
“Fuck, baby, don’t cry.”
Her breath stutters.
“Enya,” I whisper. “I know I hurt you. But I swear to you—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in sharply. “Don’t make promises. You’re good at breaking those.”
“I’m not that man anymore.”
She shakes her head, voice trembling. “I can’t trust anything you say.”
“Give me a chance and—”
“May I have this dance?” her father interrupts us, and I have no choice but to hand her over to his smirking ass.
“You know, Dominic, you should come by the house with Enya for dinner,” he suggests, his hand resting on Enya’s waist. “And we can talk about your work at Sentinel.”
She closes her eyes, pain etched on her face. I hate it. I especially hate that I have put that misery there.
“Kevin, I’m not interested in you, only Enya.” I step away from both of them, but hold her gaze. I’m being deliberate, intentional. “Goodnight, baby. I’ll talk to you soon.”
With that, I turn on my heel and march out, seething.
I’m furious with Kevin Cahill for being a bloodsucking asshole.
I’m furious with Lowell for being a goddamn treasonous motherfucker.
And…I’m furious with myself for having had no choice but to do what I did.