Chapter 3 - The Predator's Ball
The silence that had swallowed the ballroom gradually dissolved back into a restless, murmuring hum, but the center of gravity had irrevocably shifted. Every influential monster in the tristate area was suddenly craning their neck, trying to figure out who the devastating creature standing beside Larkin Steves was.
Thomas finally recovered his voice, though it squeaked slightly. "Where... where did you get that dress, Penelope?"
Penelope didn't look at Thomas. Her gaze remained locked on Larkin, a faint, dangerous smirk playing at the corner of her crimson lips. "I budgeted responsibly, Mr. Dixon. Unlike some people who spend syndicate funds on custom sports cars that routinely fail police inspections."
Thomas flushed a violent crimson. Larkin felt a sudden, fierce surge of adrenaline twist in his chest—not anger, but a bizarre, intoxicating rush of pride.
"Dance with me," Larkin commanded, his voice rougher than intended as he set his unfinished bourbon down on a passing waiter's tray.
Penelope tilted her head. "I thought this was a mandatory corporate function, sir. Are dancing and networking included in my hourly wage?"
"Consider it overtime," Larkin murmured, his hand settling firmly against the bare expanse of her lower back where the gunmetal chains met the dark silk.
As they stepped onto the polished parquet floor, Larkin pulled her flush against him. The scent of her perfume—something expensive, smoky, and dangerously floral—overwhelmed his senses. She moved with effortless, predatory grace, matching his steps before he even led them.
"You lied to me," Larkin said quietly, his eyes searching her face as they spun past a cluster of Bratva enforcers who were staring openly.
"I wore black, Mr. Steves. Just as requested," she replied smoothly, her hand resting lightly on his broad shoulder, her sharp fingernails grazing the wool of his jacket.
"You knew what this gala was. You knew what people would think."
"Did I?" Penelope's dark eyes glinted with amusement. "Or perhaps I simply decided that if I was going to attend a gathering of sociopaths, I should dress appropriately for the company."
Larkin let out a low, disbelieving laugh. The irony hit him with crushing force. For three years, he had treated her like office furniture, believing she was invisible, while she sat ten feet away analyzing every fracture, every weakness, and every dark secret of his empire.
"Who are you, Penelope?" he asked, his voice dropping into an intimate murmur that ignored the hundreds of watching eyes.
May you like
"I'm the person who balances your books, Larkin," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "And right now, you're deeply in the red."
Before he could answer, the music swelled to a crescendo, and Larkin realized with absolute clarity that he was entirely, hopelessly captivated. The joke hadn't been on her. It had been on him, and he had never been happier to lose.
