Chapter 3

The air in the private box was thick, heavy with the scent of expensive perfume, stale champagne, and the low, humming tension of a hundred unseen eyes beyond the heavy velvet drapes. I sat on the edge of the plush crimson seat, my fingers tracing the gold embroidery of the armrest, trying to steady the tremor in my hands that had nothing to do with the cold. The opera was still in the overture, a swelling crescendo of violins that seemed to vibrate in my very bones, but I couldn’t hear it. I could only feel the weight of his gaze burning into the side of my face, a physical pressure that made my skin prickle. He hadn’t moved much since the curtain rose. He was a statue of controlled power in his tailored tuxedo, the black fabric eating the dim light, his posture relaxed but predatory. Every few minutes, his eyes would sweep over me, checking, assessing, claiming. And I, poor, conflicted creature, let him. I let him look. I let him watch the way my chest rose and fell a little too quickly, the way my throat bobbed when I swallowed. It was torture. It was exquisite. The