The Prey

I never imagined it.

The violin sang its mournful tune, and I swayed to it—not of my own accord, mind you, but because Judas Romanovski, the devil in a three-piece suit, was steering me across the candlelit floor like some twisted waltz master. His palms rested on my waist—shamefully large—and my cheek pressed against his chest. Solid. Warm. Infuriating. I must’ve been hallucinating. Or drunk. Definitely drunk.

“This feels illegal,” I muttered. The words tumbled out, and I didn’t even care. Liquid courage for the win. “You’re like… evil or something, and here you are, waltzing like some romantic hero in a bad mafia romance novel.”

He chuckled....