Page 63 of Marrying My Professor

Alexander's expression softens, some of the danger bleeding out of his posture. "Always."

He leads me onto the dance floor, one hand finding mine while the other settles on my waist just above where the dress cuts low. The orchestra is playing something slow and classical—Strauss, maybe, or one of those composers whose names all sound the same to me—and around us, other couples move in elegant synchronization like they're part of some choreographed performance.

"You're tense," Alexander murmurs as we begin to sway, his thumb tracing small circles on my waist that should be soothing but just remind me how thin the fabric is, how exposed I am.

"I'm in a room full of people who wanted me dead a week ago," I say, keeping my voice low. "Forgive me if I'm not relaxed."

"Fair point." His thumb continues its circuit, methodical and grounding. "But you're also the most beautiful woman here, and everyone is staring at you because they can't help themselves."

I glance around and realize he's right. Eyes follow us as we move—some curious, some envious, some calculating in a way that makes my skin crawl. Women assessing my dress, my hair, my makeup, trying to figure out where I fit in the hierarchy. Men staring with varying degrees of subtlety, some appreciative, some predatory, all making me wish I'd worn something with a higher neckline and a longer hem.

This is what it means to be a Veritas wife, I realize. To be displayed. Examined. Evaluated like livestock at auction.

"I need to introduce you," Alexander says after a moment, and something in his tone makes my stomach clench. "To the faction leaders. It's protocol. They need to see that you're officially part of this now, that our marriage is recognized by the organization."

My stomach knots. "Do we have to?"

"Yes." His eyes meet mine, apologetic but firm. "But I'll be right there. And if anyone says anything inappropriate, if anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I'll handle it. I promise."

What a comfort. My husband will defend me from his colleagues in the murder club.

We make our way off the dance floor toward a group of men standing near the bar, and I recognize them immediately from Alexander's descriptions, from the council meeting I wasn't supposed to know about but he told me anyway because apparently we're doing this whole "no secrets" thing.

Julian Voss with his slicked-back dark hair and predatory patience, looking like a 1950s movie villain in his perfectly cut tuxedo. Dominic Kane sprawling against the bar with that wolfish grin, his red tie loose at the throat in deliberate contrast to everyone else's formal perfection, looking like he's two drinks away from doing something inappropriate. Evander Thorne in his grey robes that he wears even to formal events because apparently being the creepy death cult leader is a full-time aesthetic, looking like someone's disappointing Victorian uncle.

And Nathaniel Davis, the Praefectus Maximus, watching our approach with those pale blue eyes that see too much, that probably see right through every lie I've ever told and every secret I'm keeping.

These are the men who run the Veritas. These are the men who could have ordered Brandon's death. These are the men who hold my life in their hands.

"Gentlemen," Alexander says, his voice taking on a formal quality I haven't heard before. "I'd like to introduce my wife, Elara."

"Mrs. Draven," Nathaniel greets, inclining his head in a gesture that's probably meant to be respectful but reads as condescending. "Welcome to the family."

Family. The word makes my skin crawl, makes me want to laugh hysterically because this is not a family, this is a criminal organization with better PR.

"You're even more stunning up close," Julian says, his gaze traveling over me in a way that makes me want to shower, that makes Alexander's hand tighten on my back. "Alexander, you've done well for yourself. Very well indeed."

I'm right here, you absolute walnut. You're talking about me like I'm a car he just bought.

"Very well," Dominic agrees, his grin widening in a way that's probably meant to be charming but lands somewhere closer to predatory.

"Though I have to say, I'm surprised you managed to lock this one down so quickly. She doesn't strike me as the type to be easily tamed."

Tamed. TAMED. Like I'm a fucking animal.

"When you know, you know," Alexander says smoothly, and I can hear the edge in his voice, can feel the tension radiating through his hand on my back.

James Harrington steps forward from where he'd been standing slightly behind the others, and my stomach drops because of course he's here, of course the man who probably killed my brother is standing three feet away looking devastatingly handsome and completely at ease.

He takes my hand before I can pull it back—too fast, too practiced—lifting it to his lips in a gesture that looks courtly but feels like a threat, like a reminder of the power he holds.

"Lovely to see you again, Elara," he murmurs against my knuckles, his lips warm and dry against my skin in a way that makes me want to scrub my hand with bleach. "Under much better circumstances than our last encounter."

Better circumstances. RIGHT. Because almost being murdered is so much worse than being forced to socialize with my would-be murderers at a fancy party.

I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Likewise."

"Your husband made quite the sacrifice for you," James continues, still holding my hand, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that's absolutely deliberate. "Extending his service indefinitely. That's true love, wouldn't you say?"