I press my palms against Oliver's neck. His arms wrap around me—too close.
Too dangerous. My breath catches. My body reacts before my heart has time to understand.
A rush of electricity sweeps through me, like butterflies swirling. The air feels alive—his warmth seeps through the fabric, binding my heart in chains of cold fire. We sway side to side, slowly, almost ritualistically. The music curls around us like an ancient spell. And my heart is begging to stop pounding so hard.
The ballroom sparkles—almost excessively. Heavy chandeliers cast long shadows. Candlelight flickers on the shiny floor. It reflects our image, like a lie dressed as truth.
And I feel Jace's gaze on the back of my neck before I even see him. His stare burns. He shifts uncomfortably. His eyes look away—then find me again. Something inside him is unraveling. Jealousy. Pain. Disappointment.
All of it at once.
I glance at Oliver—but my heart is pulled elsewhere toward Jace.
And that confusion burns, like fire trying to blaze in two directions at once.
Everyone's watching. But only two of them see me.
"What are you looking at?" Oliver whispers softly, as if this dance is a private chat meant for just the two of them.
He notices where my eyes wandered. I try to pull them back—to hold on.
"Nothing," I lied under my breath.
But he knows. He turns just enough to spot Jace. His smile widens. "Is your beloved jealous?" he asks, pulling me closer, his body shielding me from every memory that isn't him.
"I'm not using you to make him jealous," I snap. "Unlike you." My voice is sharp. My smile is sharper.
"So what?" he shrugs, clearly enjoying the game. "I would have done the same. It's a tactic."
"How mature," I rolled my eyes. But the pressure inside me coiled tighter.
"I'm just making sure he doesn't fall apart like in your visions." That sentence cuts like a blade because I've seen it—Jace losing himself—the fear in his eyes.
"Because, in case you forgot—he's turning into a werewolf."
Oliver releases me for a moment, spins me smoothly, then pulls me back in. Even closer.
"I don't care about him," he says. His eyes lock onto mine. "You're the one I care about."
My heart skips a beat. Maybe two. I try to hide the fracture—but something soft inside me melts.
Without thinking, I compare this embrace to Jace's. They're nothing alike.
Jace held me like a promise. Oliver feels like a risk I'm willing to embrace.
"Even though you're my teacher?" I smirk. "Or is that just part of the whole 'torment me in class' thing?"
"I never wanted to be your teacher," he says—this time, no sarcasm. "I started this as an assignment. But now… It's so much more."
He pauses. "And I'm glad I am. And the teasing? The torment? That was my way of flirting." He leans in. "And don't say it didn't help you."
The truth? It did. It broke me—so I could rebuild myself stronger.
I open my mouth to say something, but all that escapes is a shallow breath.
The music fills the air. His smile widens—a quiet victory.
But in my mind, only one sentence echoes: You're the one I care about.
"Do you feel anything for me?" I ask suddenly. No masks. No walls. There is only one question that demands bravery and recklessness. If he says yes, it might destroy me. But if he says no, it might hurt even more.
He's quiet for a moment. Then he whispers, "I'm not supposed to feel anything for a student. So I ignore how I feel."
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. His lashes tremble. His expression cracks. Something in his face slips.
I freeze. For a moment, I hate him. And in the next—I believe him.
But my heart isn't stupid. I heard what his mouth didn't dare say.
We keep moving slowly, like shadows in a dance that belongs to no one.
His breath grazes mine.
From the corner of my eye, I see Jace turn. And disappear.
Something inside me breaks, like a piece of my heart is torn away. No one touches it; it's just a look.
And maybe that's why—it hurts more.
I whisper, "What do you feel for me?"
This time, I don't let him escape. I don't wrap the question in ribbons. I want to know. Know. And I'm ready for the answer.
Then he closes his eyes for a moment, like he's trying to hide something.
But I see it.
Even before he speaks, I already know.
He didn't answer with words, only with a look.
And I understand now: this isn't love. This is war—disguised as a dance.