"Please welcome, Mr. Eros Clyde Morales!"
Applause thundered as every head turned toward the staircase. He descended with unhurried steps, an all-white suit sculpting his tall figure as though the fabric had been cut from light itself. Each movement was deliberate, precise, as if the world had slowed just to accommodate him. The girls nearby giggled, whispering his name like a spell tahey hoped might draw his gaze. Some fanned themselves, others clutched their dresses, but all were hypnotized, caught in the pull of his presence.
I hated to admit it, but he was striking—too striking. Unreal, like a figure torn from a painting or a dream. A prince, maybe, but with eyes far too sharp to ever be kind. There was a subtle menace to him beneath the flawless surface, the sense that charm and danger were stitched together in the same thread. Every jawline, every angle of his face seemed meticulously carved, every step measured to command attention without needing to ask for it.
And yet, even in the swirl of admiration, I felt... wary. My chest tightened with a strange mixture of intrigue and caution, like my body remembered something it wasn't supposed to. There was something in the way he moved, in the faint curl of dark hair brushing his forehead, that felt almost alive—watching, waiting, calculating.
I tried to look away, to retreat into the shadows of the crowd. But my eyes refused to follow my will. Even from across the room, he drew me in, a magnet I couldn't resist.
"The asshole knows he's handsome," Mina muttered, shaking her head as Eros winked toward the crowd. The shrieks that followed made her groan. "These girls are annoying!"
I laughed, though my eyes lingered on him longer than I wanted.
The party swelled around us—music, laughter, clinking glasses spilling through the grand hall. Mina was soon pulled away by friends, her laughter drifting back to me like a tether I couldn't quite hold. I was left at the edge of the dance floor, a glass I barely touched trembling slightly in my hand.
I told myself to relax, to blend into the night, to become nothing more than a shadow on the wall. But my gaze betrayed me, dragging me back to him again and again, like a moth to a flame I should fear. Every time my eyes met his, my chest tightened, a slow, electric ache crawling beneath my ribs.
Even before he looked my way, I felt it—the subtle prickling at the back of my neck, like invisible fingers tracing my skin, tingling and consuming. The warmth of the ballroom, the music, the laughter, all fell away, replaced by the sharp pull of his presence. My pulse betrayed me, hammering in my ears until I felt each beat reverberate against my skull.
And then his eyes lifted. The space between us collapsed like it had never existed. Dark. Unreadable. Piercing. His gaze caught me and held me, as though he had been searching for me all along. My lips parted, but no words came. My stomach twisted into knots, my body recalling the shadowy alley, the grip of his hand on my wrist, the danger I'd narrowly escaped.
A flicker at the edge of the ballroom caught my vision—a shadow, a shape moving just beyond the crowd. I blinked, and it vanished. My pulse jumped; my senses sharpened, every sound amplified: the scrape of heels on marble, the murmur of the crowd, the faint rustle of silk across the floor.
The crowd swirled around him, but when he began moving toward me, it was as if the world itself had parted for him alone. Time slowed; breaths caught in chests, glasses paused mid-lift, the music pulsing like a heartbeat in my ears. My own breath stalled. I thought of running, of disappearing into the throng, but my feet refused to obey.
He stopped in front of me, close enough for me to catch the faint trace of cedar, smoke, danger. My body hummed with awareness, every nerve strung tight, every inch of my skin alive.
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a request. His voice was smooth, heavy, threaded with authority, edged with a subtle command that left no room for refusal.
My lips parted, but no sound came. His hand extended between us, palm open, patient yet demanding. The music swelled, deep and rich, as though the universe itself waited for me to answer.
I should have said no. I wanted to. I should have stepped back, pulled away, dissolved into the shadows.
But my fingers betrayed me. They slid into his.
His grip closed—steady, claiming—as he drew me onto the floor with a fluid ease that stole my breath. He moved like he owned the space, like he owned me the moment I stepped into his rhythm.
Around us, the world blurred—the crowd fading into haze, chandeliers melting into light, laughter folding into echoes. It was only his hand at my waist, the heat of his palm pressing through the thin fabric of my dress, the silent burn of his gaze searing into me.
"You're not like them," he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath brushed my ear, a warm exhale threaded with danger. "You don't belong here."
A chill skated down my spine, sharp and thrilling, and I wanted to ask what he meant, to protest, to escape. But then I saw it—something sharp in his eyes, a warning and a promise intertwined. And still, I couldn't look away.
The song ended. He released me without resistance, as though the dance had been nothing more than courtesy. And yet the ghost of his hand lingered on my skin, heavy and unshakable, leaving a trace that throbbed beneath my senses long after he had stepped away.
Even as laughter and music swelled back into focus, I remained suspended, aware of every heartbeat, every pulse of air, every invisible thread that tied me to him. For a moment, the world felt impossibly large—and impossibly small, contained entirely within the weight of a single, fleeting touch.
Mina tugged at my arm, pulling me back into the circle of cousins, but my body felt a step behind, my mind still trapped on the dance floor.
Then, a shadow moved behind the crowd near the staircase—someone lingering too long, too still. My chest tightened. My gaze flicked, but by the time I focused, the figure had vanished.