12. 11 #4
“Insufferable man speaking,” Lance chimed in, rolling his eyes. “Another drink,” he added, pressing coins to the counter.
Branley eyed the money, then Lance. “Ugh. You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He snatched the coins and turned away.
“I told you you were pretty,” Mabel teased, nudging him. Lance waved her off, but the smirk lingered.
The silence stretched, warm and taut, until Mabel spoke again, “Are you going to tell me about last time?”
Lance leaned against the bar, his gaze sharpening. “The last time Theodore and I were here,” he said, pointing to his face, “this happened.”
Mabel’s eyes traced the faint cuts, nearly healed but still visible.
“Which is why Branley’s so sour,” Lance added, just as he returned with the drink.
“You broke a table and two chairs,” Branley muttered, setting the mug down. “And somehow the guards got in. Someone keeps forgetting to lock that damn door.” He turned to Mabel, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Tell me, Princess. What brings you here? And with him?”
“Am I not allowed to be here?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Debatable,” Branley said dryly, already turning away.
Mabel took a sip of her drink, letting the warmth settle before she answered.
“Fate has a funny way of meddling in my life,” she said simply, her gaze steady.
She glanced toward Lance, then back to the crowd.
“And maybe I needed a reminder that I’m allowed to want things.
” Her voice was calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.
“Poetic,” Branley said dryly. “You should be the one on that stage.” He shook his head then straightened, walking away.
Mabel watched the liquid swirl in her cup, the amber catching torchlight as it rippled. She glanced sideways. Lance’s gaze was fixed on her.
“Do you want to say something,” she asked quietly, “or are you just going to keep staring?” She took a slow sip.
“You’re beautiful,” he said again, voice low, meant only for her.
She turned away, heat blooming across her cheeks. She hated how easily it came, how easily he drew it out of her.
“This is wrong.” She sighed, shaking her head.
“What does that mean?” he asked, head tilting with curiosity.
“It means …” Her voice faltered. The words barely made it out.
“That you shouldn’t call me beautiful. We shouldn’t be doing this.
” Then sharper, steadier, “I still have to marry Theodore.” Her gaze snapped to his.
“Can you imagine the fallout? He shoved me over a dance, Lance. What do you think he’d do if he found out about … this?”
Lance’s smile vanished. His posture shifted, shoulders squaring, brows knitting tight. “He shoved you?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Just nodded.
A beat passed.
Then he turned, abrupt.
Mabel’s eyes widened. “Lance—wait,” she said, reaching for him, fingers tightening around his wrist. “Please.”
He paused, glancing back. Her eyes met his, wide, pleading, impossible to ignore. He couldn’t walk away. Not with her looking at him like that.
She took a step, closing the space between them. Her hands found his face, gentle but firm, guiding him down until their foreheads almost touched.
“Don’t ruin this,” she whispered, voice trembling with something fragile and fierce.
“I thought you said we can’t do this.” His words were hushed, barely holding back anger.
“I said we shouldn’t.” Her stare was pointed. “Not that we can’t.”
His hand leisurely moved to her waist. She didn’t flinch. His fingers gently settled there. Steady.
Mabel met his gaze, lips pressing into a line before she spoke.
“So, you can’t go down there—because I want this feeling to last. I want you to touch me.
” She stepped closer to him, her body pressing to his.
“Again and again. I want you to ruin me for him.” Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his top, holding him there.
He paused only for a moment before giving in to her pleas, lips brushing hers before trailing heat down the line of her throat. His grip tightened, pulling her flush against him, close enough to feel the shape of him, the tension coiled beneath his skin.
She was breathless. Her heart thundered. Her cheeks burned. And beneath it all, something deeper stirred.
What was it about him that ignited her? Was it defiance? Was it the dreams? Or something she wasn’t ready to name? She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
The night blurred—more drinks, caution slipping away with wild abandon. Lance’s hands stayed greedy; his kisses on her skin stayed teasing.
They danced, bodies pressed close. Mabel, a few too many drinks deep, moved with abandon. Lance behind her, hands guiding her hips, constant with his praises.
It made her feel beautiful.
It made her feel wanted.
Lance had vanished again for refills. He’d motioned for her to follow, but she’d waved him off with a grumble about her aching feet and sunk into the nearest lounge.