Chapter 90: I could strangle him.

"What was that for?" I demand.

Lysander looks down at me, his expression infuriatingly innocent. "What was what?"

I stare at him and he stares right back.

"I just want to dance with my wife," he adds, as though that explains why he interrupted Cassian and practically dragged me from my own brother.

I snort. "You’re trying to spite Cas, aren’t you?"

"Not at all."

"Liar."

"Careful, Nerissa. You’re beginning to sound like you don’t trust me."

"Oh, forgive me. I must have forgotten that trust is the foundation of our beautiful marriage."

His lips twitch.

I hate that little smile. I hate how easily it appears whenever he thinks he’s gotten under my skin. Most importantly, I hate that he is usually right.

The orchestra plays a slow, elegant melody, and couples move around us beneath the enormous chandeliers.

Lysander’s hand rests against my waist, just above the curve of my hip. His other hand holds mine as he guides me across the polished floor.

He dances well.

Of course he does.

Men like Lysander probably come out of the womb knowing how to manipulate people, fire a gun, and dance with a woman while plotting the destruction of three rival families.

I, on the other hand, am trying not to step on his shoes.

"Are you going to spend the entire dance glaring at me?" he asks.

"I’m considering stepping on your toes."

"Is that supposed to frighten me?"

"No. It’s supposed to hurt."

His quiet laugh vibrates through me as he draws me into another turn.

I hate that too.

The man has an infuriating laugh. Low, smooth, and entirely too attractive for someone whose personality could make a saint reconsider their commitment to kindness.

I lift my chin.

"Why did you interrupt Cas?"

"I already told you. I wanted to dance with my wife."

"And I’m supposed to believe that?"

"You’re welcome to believe whatever you like."

I narrow my eyes.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

There is something about Lysander that makes every conversation feel like a chess game. He rarely says more than necessary, and when he does speak, I can never be certain whether he’s answering my question or leading me toward the answer he wants me to find.

It is exhausting.

"Did he approach you about the bruises on your neck?" he asks suddenly.

My irritation falters.

I glance at him. "What?"

"Cassian." His gaze stays on my face. "Did he ask about the bruises?"

I hesitate.

It is only for a moment, but his eyes sharpen as though he has caught me doing something suspicious.

"Yeah," I admit.

His jaw tightens.

I study him, wondering what exactly he is thinking. Is he concerned about me, or is he simply annoyed that my brother has decided to make my injuries his business?

With Lysander, the difference can be difficult to determine.

"How did that go?" he asks.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

"Oh, beautifully. We had a lovely conversation about the weather, exchanged pleasantries, and promised to meet again for tea."

His eyebrow rises.

"Really?"

"Of course not, you idiot."

"Such a charming wife."

"Such a charming husband."

We smile at each other but neither smile reaches our eyes.

"Let’s just say there’s a reason I want to spite him," he says.

I blink.

Then I burst out laughing.

I cannot help it. The image of Cassian, who has spent most of his life believing he can intimidate everyone into submission, standing in a deserted hallway with his fists clenched while Lysander calmly informs him that I personally put a bullet through Sebastian’s head is enough to brighten my evening.

I wish I had witnessed it.

Actually, no. I would have paid good money to witness it.

"What did you do to him?" I ask.

"Nothing he didn’t deserve."

"That sounds suspiciously like something a guilty man would say."

"Then perhaps you should stop asking questions you don’t want answered."

My laughter fades into a suspicious squint.

"You two are going to give me a headache."

"Only one?"

"Don’t tempt me."

He smiles again, and I decide that if I ever commit murder, I will make sure he is my alibi. No one would believe I could kill anyone while married to a man who manages to annoy me this thoroughly without even raising his voice.

His attention shifts over my shoulder.

It is a subtle movement. His eyes leave mine for barely a second, settling on something behind me.

I turn instinctively, trying to see what has caught his attention.

"Who are you looking at?"

"No one."

I turn back to him.

"Then why are you looking over my shoulder?"

"Am I not allowed to look around the room?"

"You’re allowed to do whatever you want. Apparently, that includes being a pain in my ass."

His mouth curves.

"Interesting choice of words, love."

I immediately regret speaking.

Before I can come up with a suitably insulting response, his hand moves.

One moment, his palm rests against my waist, the next, it slides lower and closes firmly around my ass.

I gasp.

For a second, my brain simply refuses to process what has happened.

Then I feel his fingers tighten into a grasp.

"Lysander!"

I try to push him away, my eyes widening as I glance around us.

He doesn’t release me. Instead, he uses his grip on his hands to pull me toward him until my body is pressed flush against his.

My breath catches.

The movement leaves almost no space between us. I can feel the solid warmth of his chest against mine, and his hand remains exactly where it has absolutely no business being.

I stare at him in disbelief.

Has he lost his mind?

"Have you completely lost it?" I whisper furiously.

His expression is maddeningly calm.

"Why would you do that?"

He tilts his head. "Do what?"

I stare at his hand.

He follows my gaze, then looks back at me with the audacity of a man who has never been told no in his entire life.

"You know exactly what you did!"

"Do I?"

I could strangle him.

I genuinely could.

The only thing stopping me is the fact that we are standing in the middle of a ballroom filled with influential politicians, wealthy businessmen, rival mafia families, and enough gossiping socialites to keep every newspaper in the country occupied for the next six months.

I try to move away again but his grip tightens, keeping me against him.

My mouth falls open.

"Lysander," I warn.

He lowers his head, bringing his face closer to mine. Anyone watching would probably mistake the gesture for an affectionate whisper between newlyweds.

They would be wrong.

This man is a menace.

His eyes flick briefly toward the people surrounding us before returning to mine.

Then he leans closer, his voice dropping into a quiet murmur.

"There’s people watching, love. Don’t want to make a scene now, do you?"

Someone coughs behind me.

I turn, silently praying it is someone coming to inform us that the building is on fire and we must evacuate immediately.

Unfortunately or fortunately it is Cassian.

"Can I have this dance?"

His eyes move from me to Lysander, and I can practically see him reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment.

Lysander, on the other hand, smirks.

"Of course."

Before I can say anything, he releases me and hands me over to my brother as though I am some precious parcel being delivered to its rightful owner.

"Enjoy yourselves," he says.

Then the bastard walks away.

Just like that.

I watch him disappear into the crowd, only to stop when I see who he approaches.

The bitch from the bathroom, she brightens the moment she sees him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he leads her onto the dance floor.

Something ugly stirs inside my chest.

Is that.....Jealousy?.

The realization hits me so suddenly that I almost stumble.

Jealousy?

Of Eva?

Absolutely not.

I would rather swallow a handful of nails.

I force myself to look away, swallowing the unpleasant feeling before it can grow into something I cannot explain.

Lysander can dance with whoever he wants. We are married because our families need peace, not because we are madly in love.

Besides, Eva can have him.

Good luck to her. She will need it.

"So," Cassian says, drawing my attention back to him. "I heard you shot the man responsible for your bruises?."

I look up at him.

"Yes, I did."

His expression softens, and for a moment, the anger I saw earlier disappears. He studies my face as though checking that I am still the little girl he remembers, the one he used to protect from scraped knees and nightmares.

Then he raises his hand and pats my head.

Just like he used to when we were children.

"Good job, Ris."

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

I roll my eyes to hide it. "Obviously. Did you expect anything less?"

A smile spreads across his face.

"Not from you."

And for the first time tonight, I smile without having to force it.