Chapter 89: I’d like to dance with my wife.

I would prefer to hit him in the face, perhaps break his nose.

It would certainly improve my mood.

Unfortunately, we are attending a party with hundreds of guests, half of whom would sell their own mothers for the opportunity to witness a public altercation between the Don of the Sanchez family and a senior member of the Luciano family.

A broken nose would raise questions.

Questions would lead to rumors and rumors would reach all made men before the evening was over.

I have no intention of giving them a reason to think my marriage has turned into a circus.

I straighten my jacket.

"Now, are you going to explain what the fuck you’re talking about, or are you planning to keep throwing punches until one of us gets bored?"

Cassian’s chest rises and falls.

"You put your hands on my sister."

My expression hardens.

"One of my men did."

He gives a short, humorless laugh.

"Oh, that makes it so much better."

"He has been dealt with."

"She was under your protection!" he snaps. "She was hurt under your protection!"

The words strike a nerve, because he’s right.

Nerissa is my wife.

Whether our marriage began as a political arrangement or not, she lives under my roof, bears my name, and stands beside me in public. Anyone who believes that gives them permission to hurt her has misunderstood the situation and anyone who thinks I would tolerate such behavior simply because the offender wears my colors is an idiot.

I know what happened, I know what Sebastian did and I know what I allowed Nerissa to do afterward.

"I know," I say, my voice cold. "I said it’s been taken care of."

Cassian steps closer.

"How?"

I hold his gaze.

"I don’t owe you an explanation."

His smile disappears.

"How?" he repeats, each word sharper than the last. "I want to know who did it. I want his name. I want to look him in the eyes before I skin him alive."

I almost laugh.

Not because I find his anger amusing, but because he has arrived too late to make good on that threat.

Sebastian is dead and his sister was the one who pulled the trigger.

I remember the way she stood in front of my men, her chin lifted, her eyes steady, refusing to let a room full of hardened killers reduce her to a helpless woman who needed someone else to avenge her.

And I respect her for that.

Cassian is still glaring at me, waiting for his answer.

I slip my hands into my pockets.

"You’re a little too late for that."

His expression shifts.

"What do you mean?"

I look him straight in the eyes.

"Cause your sister blew his brains out."

"That’s bullshit. Rissa wouldn’t do that."

"Well, she did, and it was beautiful to watch."

Cassian’s expression darkens. Before I can say another word, he rushes me again, jabbing a finger into my chest.

"Keep my sister out of your stupid games. Do you hear me?"

I stare at him, my jaw tightening. Then, without waiting for my response, he turns and walks out, leaving me standing in the deserted hallway.

Nerissa’s POV

By the time I make it back to the girls, I have almost convinced myself that the bathroom incident is no longer worth thinking about.

Almost.

I take another glass from the tray a waiter is carrying past me and join Isabella and Victoria, who are still tucked away in their quiet corner.

Victoria looks me over the moment I approach.

"Why do you look pissed?"

I blink at her innocently. "Do I?"

"Yes." She points her glass at my face. "You have that look. The one that says you’re imagining twelve different ways to murder someone and trying to decide which is your favorite."

"Only twelve?" Isabella asks. "That’s progress."

I snort, nearly choking on my drink.

"I hate both of you."

"No, you don’t," Victoria says cheerfully. "Now, tell us. Who are we killing?"

"Nothing serious. Just some girls in the bathroom."

Victoria’s eyebrows shoot up. "Girls?"

"Unfortunately."

"What did they do?"

"Opened their mouths."

She nods solemnly, as though I have just informed her of a grave crime. "Terrible offense. Absolutely unforgivable."

Isabella laughs into her glass.

"I can beat their asses for you if you want," Victoria offers, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

I chuckle and shake my head. "No, that won’t be necessary."

"Are you sure? I have excellent upper-body strength."

"I’m very sure."

For a few minutes, the conversation drifts to safer subjects. Victoria complains about a customer who demanded free ice cream because his scoop was too small. Isabella tells us about a dress her mother insists she should wear to an upcoming family dinner. I offer to help her burn it.

She declines.

Ungrateful woman.

I am halfway through another drink when a familiar voice sounds behind me.

"Lemme have a quick word with my sister."

My smile disappears.

Oh, hell no.

I turn just as Cassian steps beside me. His expression is calm enough to fool a stranger, but I know him too well. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard, and the look he gives me suggests he has several questions he wants answered.

None of them will be pleasant.

"Cas," I begin cautiously.

"Come with me, Rissa."

Before I can ask what he wants, he catches my arm and starts pulling me away from the girls.

"Can you stop dragging me around like luggage?" I complain, stumbling after him. "I have legs."

"Then use them."

"I was using them perfectly well before you decided to abduct me."

"Rissa."

The warning in his voice makes me sigh.

That older-brother tone. The one that used to make me confess to things I hadn’t even done yet.

I am about to demand an explanation when another voice cuts through the noise.

"I’d like to have my first dance with my wife, please."

My steps stop.....because apparently, the universe has decided that one infuriating man at a time would be too merciful.

Lysander stands a few feet away, his eyes move from Cassian’s hand around my arm to my face.

Then he smiles.

It is the sort of smile that makes me wonder whether I should be looking for the nearest exit.

Cassian turns slowly.

For one glorious second, I genuinely believe he is going to punch Lysander in the face.

His fingers tighten around my arm. His stare settles on my husband with enough hostility to set the curtains on fire.

Lysander, naturally, looks entirely unbothered.

"Did you not hear me?" he asks pleasantly. "I said I’d like to dance with my wife."

"I heard you," Cassian replies.

"Wonderful."

"Then you should understand that I’m having a conversation with my sister."

"And I’m asking my wife for a dance."

The two men stare at each other.

I look between them and silently pray for patience. Or a sudden power outage. Either would be useful.

Several guests nearby have begun paying attention. They are doing that ridiculous thing people do when they want to eavesdrop without appearing interested, pretending to admire the decorations while angling their heads toward the argument.

Cassian notices them.

His jaw flexes.

He may be reckless, but he isn’t stupid enough to start a public brawl at an event where both families are supposed to demonstrate their commitment to peace.

Slowly, he releases my arm.

"This conversation isn’t over, Rissa," he mutters.

"I gathered that from the kidnapping attempt."

He ignores me and shoots Lysander one last murderous look.

"If you hurt her again, I’ll...."

"Cas," I interrupt before he can finish. "Go and enjoy the party."

His eyes flick toward me.

For a moment, something softer breaks through his anger. Concern, perhaps.

Then his expression hardens again and he steps back.

Lysander offers him a polite nod that is so infuriatingly smug I nearly step on his foot.

Cassian walks away without another word.

I watch him disappear into the crowd, already dreading whatever lecture he has planned for me later.

Then Lysander holds out his hand.

"Shall we?"

I look at it, then at him.

"Do you ever get tired of being insufferable?"

"Not particularly."

Naturally.

I place my hand in his, mostly because refusing would attract even more attention than we already have. He draws me toward the dance floor, his other hand settling around my waist.

The music changes to something slower as we join the other couples.

Lysander pulls me closer, and I have to tilt my head back to look at him.

His hand rests against the bare skin of my lower back, warm against the cool air of the ballroom. I hate that I notice the difference. I hate even more that my body seems determined to remember every point of contact between us.

This marriage is supposed to be an arrangement.

I am not supposed to be distracted by the way my husband’s fingers move against my waist.

And yet, here I am.

"What was that for?" I ask.

He glances down at me. "What was what?"

"Don’t play innocent. You know exactly what I’m talking about."