CHAPTER NINE #2
Warmth shouldn’t have felt like a trap. But his was.
This wasn’t the polite firmness of a gentleman guiding a partner. This was ownership. A claiming. The way you might hold something that belongs to you, daring anyone to take it away.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The pressure of his grip was its own silent instruction, move. And I did, because fighting here, in front of everyone, wasn’t an option.
He led me into the open, where the band’s slow melody curled around us like smoke. Every step was deliberate, his stride slow enough that I could feel the faint drag of resistance, as though he was making sure I knew he was in control.
Then he turned, facing me fully, and pulled me into him.
It wasn’t the respectable embrace of a stepbrother forced into a ceremonial waltz.
No. This was too close. His left hand stayed locked with mine, fingers binding, while his right settled lower than it should have, just above my hip, that dangerous strip where the fabric of my dress exposed bare skin.
The pressure was insistent, dragging me until my body molded to his.
The tailored lines of his suit became a thin disguise for the reality beneath: the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against my ribs, the solid plane of muscle beneath expensive wool, the unmistakable tension of his thigh brushing mine every time we shifted.
I sucked in a breath, quick and sharp.
This wasn’t a dance.
This was a performance. A private joke delivered in public. A show for everyone else, a message for me alone.
I tried to create space, tilting my head back just enough to avoid the suffocating proximity, letting my spine curve subtly to gain an inch. But the inch never came. His hand at my back flattened, dragging me tighter, and his fingers around mine became a steel vice.
He leaned in then, his face angled so close that the heat of his breath threaded through my hair. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear. It was meant for me alone.
“Relax, princess,” he murmured.
The endearment was a lie. A blade. A collar snapped into place.
“It’s just a dance.”
But the low rumble of his tone slipped under my skin, bypassing thought and reason, vibrating straight into my bones, and I knew… this was anything but just a dance.
The photographer’s flash exploded in front of my eyes. A sudden burst of white that seared through the haze of Riley’s relentless stare. For a fraction of a second, the world blurred, and I almost tasted freedom in that blindness.
But then the light faded.
And so did my illusion of escape.
We swayed, slow and languid, to a ballad dripping with promises of eternal love, a cruel soundtrack that underscored the silent war between us. Each note wrapped around us like a noose tightening with every beat.
His breath brushed the shell of my ear, warm and dangerous, and I could feel the weight of his presence crushing the space around me.
“Your heart’s racing,” he whispered, voice silky venom. “Do I affect you that much?”
I wanted to scream. To shove him away and make every single person here see the monster lurking beneath his flawless mask. But I couldn’t.
Because my mother’s smile was pinned to me. Bright, hopeful, blinding. Her eyes glistened with tears, and I was locked in this gilded cage of her happiness.
So I bit back the fury, letting it simmer under my skin.
“I’m not affected by you,” I hissed, voice low, tight. “I just hate being touched by you.”
He laughed then, dark, guttural, a sound that seemed to echo through my bones.
“Liar.”
His thumb moved, slow and deliberate, tracing tiny circles against the soft curve of my hip, too intimate for a dance, too close to call innocent. The touch branded me, igniting every nerve ending with a primal shock I hated to admit was real.
“Your fingers are trembling.”
He leaned in, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
“Your breath’s catching.”
His voice dropped lower, a predatory purr.
“Your body’s telling me a very different story.”
I had to fight for air. Each breath felt thick and jagged. Inside, my mind screamed rebellion, but my body betrayed me, alive with a terrifying awareness I couldn’t shut down.
He savored it. Every second.
Around us, people smiled. Cameras flashed. Our parents glowed. Marcus and my mother danced, bodies pressed together, laughing like they believed in happiness, like they’d never bled before.
And there we were, their children, the illusion of family spinning beneath the lights.
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and forced the question out, quiet but sharp. “Why didn’t you stop it before it happened?”
His gaze didn’t waver. He looked down at me like he was memorizing my breaking points.
“If you hate us so much, why let them marry at all?” I whispered. “Why wait?”
He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing my cheek, his lips almost grazing my ear when he spoke.
“Because,” he murmured, voice low enough to curl against my skin, “ending it before it started would’ve been mercy. And I’m done giving him mercy.”
My stomach twisted.
“What are you talking about?”
His hand tightened, pulling me closer. From the outside, it probably looked romantic. A boy whispering something sweet to a girl under the lights. But his words were poison.
“I want him to feel it,” he said softly. “All of it. The disappointment. The regret. The loss. I want him to finally understand that everything he touches rots.”
I tried to pull back, but his fingers stayed, firm at my waist, keeping me tethered to him. “You’re cruel,” I breathed.
He smiled, slow, dangerous, devastating.
“You’re just now figuring that out?”
I swallowed hard, the music swelling around us like an ocean I couldn’t swim in. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell them?”
He laughed under his breath, the sound more like sin than humor. “Tell them what, exactly? That their golden boy whispered terrible things to you?” His thumb stroked the side of my waist, lazy and deliberate. “You’ve seen how they look at me.”
The realization hit, cold and hollow.
He was right.
I had seen it, the way my mother adored him already, the way Marcus looked at his son like he was proud of the man he’d become. Perfect. Polished. Untouchable.
His gaze pinned me harder than any touch. “Go ahead, princess. Try to warn them. Tell them what a monster I am. All it’ll do is make you look jealous, ungrateful… unhinged.”
He smiled, low and deliberate, and the sound of his amusement wrapped around me.
“And when they look at you like you’ve lost your mind, it’ll only make my job easier.”
The music ended. The applause rose and then faded into the next song, slower this time, deeper, a heartbeat stretched through soft piano chords.
He didn’t let go. His fingers flexed against my waist, a silent command, keeping me moving when all I wanted was to step back and breathe air that didn’t belong to him.
His words crawled beneath my skin, lodging deep like splinters I couldn’t pull free. It’ll only make my job easier.
Easier to ruin me. Easier to twist everything I said, every breath I took, until I looked unhinged while he stood there calm, charming, perfect.
The perfect son.
The perfect monster.
My pulse tripped against my throat, but I forced my chin up. “You really think everyone’s that blind?” I asked softly, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. “That they’ll believe you over me?”
He looked at me like I’d handed him something precious. “They already do.”
His hand slid lower on my back, not enough for anyone watching to notice, but enough to make heat flush through me, confused and unwanted.
His fingers pressed through the thin fabric of my dress, guiding me effortlessly through the rhythm, every step a reminder that he was in control.
That he could make me move, speak, breathe to his tempo.
I tried to step back, but he held me still, his hand at my waist firm, possessive, almost gentle if it weren’t for the steel beneath.
The music wrapped around us, slow and heavy, and no one noticed the battle happening in plain sight, his dominance, my defiance, the tension that burned between us like a fuse.
He lowered his mouth just close enough for me to feel the whisper of his words against my ear. “Keep fighting me, Luna. It makes it that much more fun.”
The breath caught in my throat. My pulse betrayed me, traitorous, frantic, loud enough, I was sure, for him to hear it.
His eyes locked on mine, slow, deliberate, and the intensity of his stare sent a shiver straight through me. It was impossible to look away, impossible to ignore.
“You make it so easy.” His tone was soft, intimate, the kind that slipped beneath skin and stayed there. “The way you blush. The way you try to look away but can’t.”
I stiffened, but his hand guided me again, fluid, effortless, the perfect dancer in a perfect performance for people too blind to see the rot beneath the gold.
The world around us blurred, laughter, music, the shimmer of light on champagne flutes. All I could feel was him. His heat. His voice. The danger that clung to every inch of his restraint.
My fingers curled against his shoulder, not to hold on, but to push him away. Still, I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Because underneath all the heat and humiliation, one truth burned through the noise.
If I wanted to survive him, to beat him, I couldn’t be the trembling girl he toyed with. I’d have to be smarter. Colder. Meaner.
He wanted a war?
Then I’d learn to fight like a Maddox.
The music swelled, the final notes curling through the air like smoke. His hand lingered a moment too long as the song faded, the touch almost reverent, though I knew better. It wasn’t tenderness. It was possession disguised as grace.
He leaned in, his voice just above a whisper, carrying the weight of amusement and challenge.
“Funny thing,” he murmured, his eyes locked on mine with that infuriating intensity.
“You keep saying you hate me, but here you are. Still dancing. Still letting me touch you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to stay. ”
Once, I would’ve flushed and stammered, lost between anger and confusion. But not now. Not after everything he’d said.
I met his gaze head-on, pulse steady, voice low enough that only he could hear. “Maybe I’m just getting good at pretending,” I said. “Isn’t that what you Maddoxes do best?”
For a second, his expression flickered, a flash of something unreadable before the smirk returned, sharper now, more dangerous. He looked at me like I’d just handed him a weapon and dared him to use it.
“Pretending?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a sinful hush. “That’s cute.” His thumb brushed a phantom circle against my wrist, deliberate, claiming. “But you and I both know you wouldn’t last long in my game.”
I held his stare, every instinct screaming at me to look away, to run, to breathe, but I didn’t. “Then try me.”
The air shifted. The smile that followed was slow, knowing, a promise wrapped in a threat. “Oh, I will.” He stepped back, releasing me just as the next song began, the applause for our parents swelling around us like a wave. “Midnight,” he said. “At the pool.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, eyes glinting beneath the golden lights, “you wanted to prove you can play like a Maddox.” His smile deepened, dangerous and deliberate. “Let’s see if you survive the first round.”
He turned away before I could say anything, disappearing into the crowd, leaving behind the ghost of his touch and the echo of his challenge.
I stood there, the world spinning on, laughter and music threading around me as if nothing had happened. But my heart knew better.
The war had started.