Chapter 6 #3
Senator Harrison corners me near the silent auction tables, droning about tax incentives for charitable donations.
I maintain the appearance of attention while keeping Clara in my peripheral vision.
She stands near one of the ice sculptures, champagne flute in hand, looking more relaxed than she has all evening.
The red dress catches the light as she shifts her weight, drawing the eye like a flame in darkness.
I'm not the only one who notices. James Elliot—cardiac surgeon, hospital donor, and notorious flirt—detaches from a nearby group and moves toward her with clear intent.
Something cold and primitive coils in my chest.
"Excuse me, Senator," I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I need to check on my date."
Harrison looks startled by the abrupt dismissal, but I'm already moving, weaving through clusters of guests with practiced efficiency.
I'm halfway to Clara when Elliot reaches her, his practiced smile firmly in place.
He's objectively handsome—tall, athletic build, the kind of easy confidence that comes from saving lives daily.
Women rarely refuse him anything. The thought makes my jaw clench.
I slow my approach, watching their interaction.
Clara smiles politely at whatever he's saying, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture I've come to recognize as a nervous habit.
She laughs at something, the sound genuine but restrained.
Elliot moves closer, his body language announcing his interest as clearly as a billboard.
He's good—not coming on too strong, keeping a respectful distance while still creating an impression of intimacy.
The orchestra shifts to a new piece, something slow and romantic.
Elliot gestures to the dance floor, his invitation obvious even from where I stand.
Clara hesitates, her eyes scanning the room—looking for me, I realize with satisfaction.
When she doesn't immediately spot me, she turns back to Elliot with what appears to be a polite declination.
He persists, extending his hand with a charm that's gotten him into the beds of socialites, nurses, and at least two hospital board members. Clara's resistance visibly weakens—perhaps not wanting to cause a scene, perhaps genuinely tempted by the attention of an objectively attractive man.
I analyze Elliot with cold precision. His weakness is pride—the ego of a man accustomed to being the most important person in any room, the literal holder of hearts in his skilled hands. His type hates public rejection even more than private failure. Useful information.
Clara places her hand in his, allowing herself to be led toward the dance floor. Something snaps inside me—a restraint I didn't realize I was maintaining until it breaks. I move with purpose now, no longer concerned with appearing casual.
They've barely taken position when I reach them, placing my hand on Elliot's shoulder with just enough pressure to register as dominance rather than friendly interruption.
"Mind if I cut in?" My voice is pleasant, my smile professional, but my eyes convey the message that this isn't actually a request.
Elliot turns, recognition flickering across his features. "Devereux. Didn't realize you were still here." His gaze shifts between Clara and me, reassessing. "You two are together?"
"Yes," I say simply, not elaborating. Not needing to.
Clara watches this exchange with a mixture of confusion and silence at the barely concealed territorial display.
"Of course," Elliot says, stepping back with the grace of someone who knows when he's outmatched. He turns to Clara with a final smile. "Perhaps another time."
"She's booked," I inform him, taking Clara's hand and drawing her toward me. "For all foreseeable dances."
His eyebrows rise slightly at my bluntness, but he retreats without further comment, disappearing into the crowd with wounded dignity.
Clara allows me to guide her into proper dance position, her body warm against mine as I place my hand at the small of her back. "That was subtle," she murmurs as we begin to move with the music.
"I'm not feeling particularly subtle tonight," I admit, tightening my grip slightly, drawing her closer than strict ballroom etiquette would allow.
Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. "So I gathered. Poor Dr. Elliot looked like you were going to murder him."
"He'll survive." I guide her through a turn, pleased to discover she follows my lead effortlessly. "You dance well."
"Six months of lessons before my cousin's wedding," she explains. "Mom insisted. Said every woman should know how to follow a strong lead on the dance floor."
"Your mother was wise," I say, my thumb making small circles against the silk covering her back.
Clara shivers slightly at the contact. "She also said to be wary of men who think they own the dance floor. And the women on it."
I smile at her pointed observation. "Not all women. Just you."
Her eyes widen at my candor. "Alex..."
"I don't like seeing you with other men," I say, the admission coming easier than expected. "Particularly men like Elliot who collect beautiful women like trophies."
"As opposed to you, who..."
"Who wants you in ways that have nothing to do with collection and everything to do with possession," I finish for her. The music swells as I guide her into another turn, using the momentum to pull her even closer, our bodies now separated by mere molecules of heated air.
"That's…not exactly reassuring," she says, though her dilated pupils and quickened breath tell a different story.
"It's not meant to be reassuring, Clara. It's meant to be honest."
Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on my shoulder. "And what happens when you get bored? When the novelty of the baker in flour-dusted jeans wears off?"
The question holds echoes of the concerns her friend must have shared, the warnings about my past. I consider a diplomatic answer, something designed to ease her fears while maintaining my usual emotional distance.
Instead, I find myself saying, "That's not going to happen."
"How can you be so sure?" Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for the practiced lines other women might have accepted.
"Because I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," I tell her, the raw honesty surprising us both. "It's not about novelty. It's about you. Specifically, uniquely you."
We move across the floor in perfect synchronization, as if we've been dancing together for years instead of minutes. Her body fits against mine with a rightness that defies explanation, her warmth seeping through the layers of formal wear between us.
"I'm not sure I believe you," she whispers, vulnerability flashing in her eyes.
The music changes, shifting to something faster, less intimate, but I maintain our close position, unwilling to release her. Other couples move around us, the gala continuing its carefully choreographed social dance, but they might as well be shadows for all the attention I pay them.
In this moment, with Clara warm and pliant in my arms, her scent filling my lungs, her eyes locked on mine, I recognize the dangerous truth I've been circling for weeks: I don't merely want her in my bed. I want her in my life. Under my protection. By my side.
Not as a temporary diversion or a conquest to be displayed and discarded, but as something permanent. Essential. Mine.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles in my chest like a piece falling into place, completion rather than complication.
I've built an empire by recognizing what I want and taking it. Clara Benson will be no exception—regardless of how many cardiac surgeons or jealous exes stand in my way.