Faith.
That’s never been something that comes easy to me, and by the plea in his eyes, he knows it. Despite this, I give him a slow nod, working hard to gather up my resolve. “I trust you.”
His expression shifts then, the intensity of the moment twisting so fast that I can barely keep up. “Then come on.” Tristian briskly dries his hands before holding out a palm. When I place my hand in his, he eases me off the counter and carefully straightens my dress, smoothes down my hair. “Follow me. There’s only a few minutes.”
Tristian’s fingertips tickle the small of my back when he leans down to whisper against my ear. “At midnight—in two minutes—all the Mercer men will take their women out onto that dance floor. See that guy over there? He’s my uncle.” He points to two others. “His oldest son is married, and his youngest is engaged.” A pause. “My parents, of course.” He nods to our right. “Three more cousins over there.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” My eyes ping around the crowd, wide and panicked.
“Showing my family and all the other blowhards in this room that you’re mine?” He plants a sweet kiss on my neck. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing I want more.”
My insecurity is more about me than him. He laid himself bare in that bathroom and I believe him. But the scrutiny of the men and women in the room—well, I’ve had the attention of people before. Dozens of men when I was in the pit. An entire frat when Killian forced me to suck him off in the LDZ basement. Moments that have left me shaken and changed to the very foundation of my marrow.
And somehow, neither of those were as intimidating as this moment.
The song ends and Tristian’s fingers link with mine, just as a clock chimes somewhere deep in the house, starting its ascent to twelve. The couples he’d pointed out to me step onto the dancefloor, one by one, each settling into position. I watch the women and their excited grins, backs straight with perfect posture, and try to imagine myself looking like that. Like I belong. Like this isn’t a moment I’m just recklessly stealing.
No one here knows my heart is threatening to escape from my chest as Tristian smoothly walks me into the center of the room. I try my best not to look at the others, unable to see the scorn on his parents’ face. I’ve been claimed before, with knives and trackers and bruises and marks. But never gently, proudly, formally.
Tristian Mercer has elevated me. The second one of his hands settles on my hip and the other grasps mine, I’m no longer Story Austin, daughter of a sex worker, Lady to the LDZ Lords. I’m Story Austin, Tristian’s partner.
“Take a breath,” he says quietly, eyes twinkling with a light I’ve never seen before. “Push your shoulders back.” He’s loving this, I realize. He’s basking in the publicness of it. The declaration. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is a man who’s been taught his whole life the importance of image. That something isn’t yours until you’ve flaunted it about and seen the envy reflected back at you.
I suck in a deep breath and straighten my spine, shoulders back, eyes locked with his. I see a flash of movement over his shoulder and glance up at the balcony. Izzy and Lizzy beam from between two enormous plants, spying. They both wave when they spot me, and I can’t help my smile. “At least not everyone in your family is against this,” I say, nodding discreetly.
He turns his head, following my gaze, and grins. “You sent them piles of sugar. You’re their favorite.”
“I doubt that,” I say, smoothing down his lapel. “They worship you.”
“Not as much as I worship you.” The final chime of the clock rings and the music starts. His grip tightens, and he says, “Just follow my lead.”
My first steps are tentative, but soon he has me sweeping along, caught in the rhythm of music and his arms. I ignore everyone else, all the music and dark looks, the threats outside of this house and the drama that awaits, and simply revel that, for now, and forever, Tristian Mercer is mine just as much as I am his.
16
Story
In the dream, it’s cold.
I’m not sure when it happened. First, I was dancing, sweeping along the marble floors in elegant twirls, wrapped in Tristian’s arms, and the next, I’m awash with it. It’s not cold like it was last night on the way home, the chill of the winter air invading my bones. It’s a refreshing sort of cold, soothing my overheated skin with intermittent flutters of warmth and softness. I curl into it, because even though I’m not sure why, I know this is a good cold. Good, like blue eyes. Familiar. Comforting. Safe.