Page 66 of Bad Prince
As he steps toward them, I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of what almost happened.
The interruption saved me.
Or maybe it just delayed the inevitable.
Because believing him would require admitting that I never stopped feeling it too.
And that is the one risk I refuse to take.
I slip away and walk back toward the fire.
Kane looks up immediately.
Tristan follows a few minutes later, a scowl on his face as he scans the crowd for me. But people close in around Tristan within minutes — laughter, hands, girls angling closer like proximity is currency.
I watch for one second too long.
Then I look away.
Because discipline is survival.
Even when it hurts.
I don’t look at him again.
I slip back into Kane’s orbit like nothing happened.
He reads me the way he always does—quick scan, quiet concern.
“You good?” he asks softly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He studies my face for half a beat, then lets it go.
That’s what I like about Kane.
He doesn’t interrogate.
He adjusts.
He slides his arm around my shoulders, warm and steady, and we drift closer to the music.
His hand rests low on my waist. Not claiming. Not showy. Just there.
Safe.
“You’re different tonight,” he murmurs near my ear.
“Different how?”
“Like you’re proving something.”
I scoff lightly. “To who?”
He doesn’t answer.
Because we both know.
