Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sammie
The velvet clings to me like a secret.
I told myself a hundred times I wouldn’t wear this dress, that I’d pick something safer, something that wouldn’t make my father’s eyes narrow the moment I walked into the room.
But when I unzipped the garment bag tonight, the deep blue gleamed at me like it already knew the truth.
I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be remembered.
I wanted him to look at me like he did in the maze—like every choice I made was already his.
So I wore it.
My heels click softly against the polished floor of the hotel ballroom, the sound swallowed up by the hum of laughter and the clink of champagne glasses.
The Storm Cats Christmas party is always extravagant, but this year it looks like someone bottled December and poured it out across the room.
Garlands and bows are pinned along the railings, the giant tree in the corner is weighed down with silver ornaments, and strings of warm lights drape overhead, casting everything in a golden glow.
It should feel festive. It should feel safe. But the moment I step through the doors, my pulse picks up, because I can feel him here.
Wayne’s hand is heavy on my shoulder almost instantly, steering me forward. “Keep it classy tonight, Samantha.” His voice is low, firm, carrying the weight of both coach and father.
“I always do,” I murmur, though my cheeks are already hot.
He glances down at the dress, jaw tight, and I can almost hear his unspoken thoughts. Too much. Too bold. Too tempting. But he says nothing, just nods once and guides me toward the donors gathering near the buffet.
I paste on my practiced smile, shake hands, laugh politely at jokes that don’t land. But beneath the surface, my nerves hum like an electric wire. Because I know.
I don’t have to look for him. I feel him before I see him.
And when my eyes finally scan the room, they snag exactly where I knew they would—on him.
Triston Knight.
He’s across the ballroom, dark suit stretching broad over his shoulders, tie perfectly knotted, hair still carrying that just-showered sheen that makes him look both polished and dangerous.
He’s standing with a few teammates, laughing at something one of them said, but his eyes aren’t laughing. His eyes are on me.
Heat floods my chest. I force myself to look away, to focus on the man in front of me describing his company’s latest expansion. But my thoughts scatter like marbles across a hardwood floor.
All I can think about is the weight of Triston’s gaze.
Dad excuses himself to check on the team manager, leaving me momentarily alone near the bar. I take a sip of champagne, trying to calm the wild flutter of my heart. But then—
“Running already?”
His voice is a low rasp just behind me, quiet enough that only I can hear it over the music.
I freeze. My hand tightens around the glass. Slowly, I turn.
And there he is.
Up close, the air changes. His presence is overwhelming—commanding without effort, magnetic without apology. My breath catches in my throat.
“I wasn’t running,” I whisper. “I was… regrouping.”
One corner of his mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You look like you’re fighting a war.”
“Maybe I am.” I tilt my chin, trying for defiance, but it comes out softer, more vulnerable.
His eyes sweep over me, lingering, deliberate. “Blue suits you.”
My stomach flips. “Dangerous thing to say.”
He leans closer, the scent of him—clean soap, whiskey, winter—curling around me. “Then tell me to stop.”
I should. God, I should. But the words die in my throat.
The music shifts then, the band easing into a slower, softer melody. Couples drift to the dance floor, laughter softening into murmurs. The lights dim just slightly, golden glow deepening, as if the entire room is conspiring against me.
He holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
My chest tightens. “I shouldn’t.”
“You already are,” he says, voice like velvet over stone. “You’ve been dancing with me in your head since October.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I want to argue, but I can’t. Because he’s right.
And so, against every ounce of better judgment, I place my hand in his.
His fingers close over mine and the party tilts, like a rink you don’t notice is crowned until you start to glide and gravity chooses for you.
We step into the light together. It’s nothing at first—just a slow sway, bodies finding the same tempo because the song demands it. But then his other hand settles on my waist, low, warm, confident. The velvet of my dress drinks in the heat and returns it to my skin like a secret I can’t hide.
“Look at me,” he says, soft.
I do. It’s a mistake and a mercy at the same time.
The room blurs around his face—those eyes that strip me to the bone without trying, that mouth that always looks like it’s holding back something reckless.
He doesn’t smile, not really. He wears that restrained almost-smile that says he knows exactly what I’m doing to him and he likes that I think I’m hiding it.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m cold,” I lie.
“Liar,” he says, and the word is so gentle I feel it like a kiss. “You walked in here on fire.”
“Your fault.”
“That’s generous,” he says. His thumb presses the smallest circle into my hip. “You were already burning. I’m just in the room with the lights off.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “You can’t say things like that to me here.”
“Especially here,” he says, echoing the thought that’s been gnawing at me all night. His breath brushes my cheek. “Because here, you can pretend it’s the music.”
The band leans into the melody; strings turn the room into syrup.
His palm guides me through a turn, subtle, and I fit back against him like we practiced it in another life.
We don’t talk for a few measures. We just move.
His presence lines up every misfiring nerve in me and says, there—now you’re pointed where you meant to go.
When he finally speaks again, it’s almost inaudible. “You wore blue to make me behave badly.”
“I wore blue to make me brave.”
“Same thing,” he says. “Different defendant.”
I huff, a sound that’s halfway to a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re stunning.” His mouth tilts closer to my ear, heat skimming my skin. “I tried to imagine this and I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“How it would feel to have you this close and still be civilized.”
“Are you?” I whisper. “Civilized?”
“For you,” he says. “Only ever for you.”
A muscle in my neck loosens I didn’t know I’d been clenching.
The ribbon under my cuff remembers the hallway, the keycard, every careful yes.
His hand on my waist firms, not possessive—anchoring.
I realize I’ve been floating an inch outside my body since October and he’s the first person to convince me to come back.
Across his shoulder, I catch Dad’s profile. He’s half-laughing at something the assistant coach says, but his eyes are scanning, always scanning. When they skim the dance floor, I feel the air thin.
“Wayne,” I breathe, barely moving my lips.
“I know,” Triston says. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to. “Stay with me.”
“That’s the problem.”
“It’s the solution,” he says, unbothered. “For the duration of a song.”
“It’s never just a song with you.”
“Nothing is,” he says. “That’s the curse, and the blessing.”
We rotate with the tide of other couples.
The captain and the coach’s daughter, doing exactly what everyone in this room expects and absolutely nothing they’d forgive if they could hear my heartbeat.
People we’ve known for years move by in a glittering carousel—players with their wives, staff in their best dresses, donors who pay to feel tender for an evening.
No one looks concerned. That’s the scariest part.
If danger wore antlers, I could avoid it.
This danger wears a perfect tie and knows when to laugh at the joke.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, and it isn’t a demand. It’s an invitation to stop drowning alone.
“I’m thinking I don’t belong to anyone,” I say, which is almost brave and almost a warning.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m careful.”
“You’re not careful,” I say, and he smiles like I just teased him in a language only we know.
“Only looks that way because I want to be reckless,” he says. “You’re the difference.”
“You’re very good at this,” I murmur.
“At what?”
“Saying the dangerous thing and making it sound like a promise instead of a threat.”
He considers that, eyes warm and sharp at once. “Maybe because I don’t make threats to you, Samantha. I just tell the truth and then try to be the kind of man who deserves it.”
The song dips. My guard does, too.
“Tell me yours,” he says.
“My truth?”
He nods once.
I drag my gaze away from his mouth and force it to a safe place—the knot of his tie.
It doesn’t help. The tie is navy, and my private, treacherous body reads the color like a letter addressed to it.
“I want to stop pretending,” I say. “At least with you. I’m tired of smiling at people and calling it safety. ”
His breath leaves him in a rush he covers with a quiet laugh. “That’s all I’ve wanted to hear since the maze.”
“Don’t,” I say, reflexively.
“Say the word in your head, if you won’t let me,” he says, maddeningly gentle. “Say maze and remember that you stopped running.”
I do. I remember—how stillness could be a kind of courage, how consent could feel like stepping into a shadow you chose. It hums under my skin now, synced to the slow-dancing rhythm like a second song only I can hear.
We pass within three feet of my father. I feel the heat of his attention without turning my head. Triston’s hand doesn’t flinch. He keeps us aligned, keeps our distance casual, our connection invisible to anyone who refuses to see what they don’t understand.
“Your father has good instincts,” he says, a quiet fact.
“I know.”