Page 6 of Ruthless Claim

Goddammit.

Then he starts moving and goddammit again. I want to scream.

He is good at this.

Not just adequate, but actually, frustratingly good.

He takes up exactly the right amount of space and leads without forcing it.

We fit together on the dance floor with a synchronization that feels almost like the universe is mocking me personally.

“You move well,” he says.

“I know,” I say because again, false modesty is beneath me and I want him to know that I know I’m good at this.

He waits exactly one beat. “For someone who’s never done anything more demanding than decide which charity gala to attend next.”

There it is.

I keep my smile in place through sheer force of will. “And you,” I say, matching his tone as we turn. The bastard thinks he’s going to outwit me? I was raised on how to weaponize my manners, “move surprisingly well for a man whose primary form of communication has always been physical intimidation. Almost like there’s a person in there somewhere.” I smirk.

The hand on my waist tightens. “Keep talking,” he says quietly, his voice cold and foreboding, as if it’ll intimidate me. It’s not working. “See where it gets you.”

“I’m already married to you,” I point out pleasantly. “Where exactly do you think it’s going to get me that’s worse than my current situation?”

His jaw twitches, and it’s the only emotion I get from his impassive, punchable face. “You think this is a joke?”

“I think this whole situation is a farce,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “I’m just the only one willing to say it out loud.”

“You’re a spoiled girl who’s never had anything denied to her until now,” he says coldly. There’s no mocking tone. He’s saying what he actually thinks. “And you’re throwing a very elegant tantrum about it and calling it principle.”

I feel my jaw tighten. God, I hate him. I hate him. “You know nothing about me,” I spit out, hating that nothing nastier is coming to mind.

Cillian knows this and I want to punch the triumphant smirk on his face. “I know enough.”

“You know nothing,” I hiss, my careful control suddenly fraying. “You looked at me once and decided what I was and you’ve been operating on that assumption ever since, and you are so completely wrong about me that it would be funny if it weren’t so insulting.”

“Then prove me wrong, princess,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

“Don’t call me princess,” I snap.

His eyes gleam as he twirls me. “Why not? It fits.”

I purposefully step on his foot as hard as I can, the pointed heel of my Louboutin directly to his instep. He doesn’t flinch. Dammit. I’ll have to try again later and make sure I put more force into it.

“It doesn’t fit,” I respond, trying to pull myself together and regain the upper hand. “But keep using it. Every time you do, I’m going to find a new way to make your life slightly worse, and I have both the creativity and the time.”

He steps on my foot and I glare at him.

“Oops,” Cillian says casually, as if he didn’t just fucking mean it.

The song ends.

We separate with the practiced ease of two people who have been performing all evening, and the guests applaud around us.

Neither of us look at the other as we step apart.

My smile is perfect.