Cole led Krista into the ballroom.
She clutched his arm, pressed close, and tilted her head back. The domed ceiling arched above them in a mosaic of colored tiles, spiraling toward a central point like a frozen whirlpool of glass and stone.
"Whoa," she breathed. "It's like standing inside a kaleidoscope."
The classical music, the low murmur of conversation, the shimmer of gowns and polished shoes—everything rose and fell around them like a slow tide.
"It is beautiful," he said.
"I didn't even know we had places like this," Krista whispered. "I thought stuff like this only existed in movies and DC."
He smiled. She sounded like someone seeing stained glass for the first time. He made a quiet note to check train tickets to DC for her birthday. The museums, the monuments, the old stones and stories—she'd eat it up.
A pair of women in sleek black dresses drifted past, casting them a once-over that landed somewhere between amusement and disdain. The emotion hit him in a faint, sharp pulse. Krista's embarrassment followed a heartbeat later, hot and quick. She tugged at his arm, trying to move them out of the center of the room.
"Wait," Cole murmured.
He drew her a little closer. Her cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on the floor.
"You never have to be ashamed because you see beauty," he said, keeping his voice low. "That's the whole point. We're here to enjoy it. Don't let anyone make you feel small for that."
She dropped her forehead briefly against his shoulder, then looked up again. The music swelled, bouncing off the curved dome and rolling back over them.
"Listen to that," he said. "The way the sound carries. The dome is doing half the work for the orchestra."
Krista laughed softly. "You had me at acoustic nerd talk." Her fingers squeezed his arm. "In case I forget to say it later—I'm having an amazing time."
"That's the goal."
They walked the perimeter of the floor, watching couples glide in slow loops. Dresses fanned and settled. Tuxedo jackets flashed along arcs of polished wood. For a moment, it all felt far away from ghosts, nightmares, and small-town politics.
"Alright, me boy." Seamus appeared at their side, Amber on his arm. "We all know our roles tonight. I'll parade ye about, introduce ye to a few of the locals who think they run the world, and then ye're free."
Cole nodded. He and Krista fell into step behind them.
Noise pressed in as they threaded through the clusters of guests. Music, chatter, clinking glasses—the sounds blended into a constant, layered hum. Emotion rode underneath it in waves. Excitement. Boredom. Anxiety. Lust. Ambition. It bumped and scraped against his senses like a crowd in a narrow hallway.
He drew a slow breath.
Just breathe, Constantine. In. Out. Stay inside your own skin.
"Are you okay?" Krista asked, voice soft.
"Yeah," he said. "Why?"
"You started breathing like you just ran a mile in your head."
He gave a small shrug. "Too many people. I'll live."
Seamus led them toward a group gathered around a balding man whose tux strained slightly at the buttons. A double chin wobbled when he laughed.
"It's good to see ye, Mayor," Seamus said, clapping the man's shoulder.
The mayor grinned. "Likewise, Seamus." He turned to Amber with oily charm. "Miss Ryan. Always a pleasure." He bowed over her hand and kissed her knuckles.
"Y'all know my son, Jared," the mayor added, gesturing to the blond man at his right.
Jared had a square jaw, a practiced smirk, and the easy bulk that came from weight rooms and local sports glory. Krista's quick mental appraisal hit Cole in a tiny flare of interest before she tamped it down.
Amber gave Jared a polite, flirting smile. Underneath, Cole felt an undercurrent of distaste—cool and sharp. Politics. Everyone played a role.
"Mayor," Seamus said, motioning toward Cole and Krista. "This is Mr. Cole Constantine, and his date, Miss Krista Kindle. They work with me at the Gazette."
The mayor's eyes lit. "A man who needs no introduction. I'd know you anywhere, Mr. Constantine. We haven't met, but I follow your work. We're happy to have you settled in our fair city."
"Thank you, Mayor," Cole said, offering his hand.
He shut down everything inside as their palms met. No reading, no peeking, no nothing. He didn't want even a glimpse of whatever lived in the mayor's head. Brady's voice echoed faintly in his memory: Do not get involved in my father's motivations.
"You'll have to come by City Hall sometime and see me," the mayor continued. "We'll talk properly then. For now, I've got to mingle."
"Of course," Cole said. "I'd like that."
He would rather swallow a handful of thumbtacks, but there it was.
As the mayor and Jared moved off, another presence slid into the space they left behind. The sensation registered a second before Seamus spoke—wild, bright, edged like laughter.
"Rowan," Seamus said. "There ye are."
Cole turned.
The woman he'd half-noticed crossing the room earlier now faced them fully. Her dress was sleek black, slit high up the thigh, the neckline daring but balanced. Red curls were twisted and pinned up with ornamental ebony sticks, a few tendrils spilling loose around her neck.
"Seamus. Amber." Rowan smiled and hugged Amber with easy familiarity, kissing her cheek.
"It's been too long, girl," Seamus said. "Ye still at university?"
"I am," she said. "I graduate next spring. Law degree. Then I decide which poor corner of the world to terrorize first."
Cole watched them with a quiet focus. The energy coming off Rowan danced at the edge of his senses—bright, restless, hungry for experience. When her gaze finally slid to him, the connection hit like the first swallow of strong liquor.
Amber watched that glance with open curiosity, not jealousy. Amber liked puzzles.
"Rowan," Seamus said, "this is Mr. Cole Constantine and Miss Krista Kindle. They're with me at the paper."
"Charmed," Rowan said.
She hugged Krista the same way she had hugged Amber—warm, brief, no hesitation. She turned back to Cole and extended a hand.
"Enough of the formalities, Seamus," she added with a playful glance. "Hi. Rowan Connolly."
"Cole Constantine," he said.
The moment their skin met, everything sharpened.
Her emotions poured into him in a rush—excitement, mischief, the fearless appetite that burned at the edges. It felt like downing a shot and another on top of it. His own restless energy surged back along the contact, sparking against hers. Rowan's smile widened, delighted.
Careful, Constantine. This is exactly the problem you came here to avoid.
He bowed his head slightly and brushed a formal kiss across the back of her hand. The touch amplified the feedback loop between them. Her pulse jumped. His followed.
Seamus cleared his throat. "I'll leave ye young ones to it. Try not to scandalize the old guard until after the dessert course."
He drifted away with Krista and Amber in tow, already aiming for his next cluster of targets. Krista glanced back once and gave Cole a look halfway between encouragement and you're in trouble.
"We were going to find drinks," Amber said as they moved. "Want to come, Rowan?"
"I'd be delighted," Rowan answered, eyes sliding back to Cole like she'd found a new favorite toy.
They reached a passing server with a tray of champagne flutes. Hands reached, glasses lifted. Effervescence tickled Cole's nose as he accepted one.
He hesitated.
Alcohol didn't strengthen his abilities, but it loosened his grip on the edges. Tonight, with this many people and this woman, that felt like a bad idea.
"Drink," Krista whispered, nudging his elbow. "You'll look weird if you don't."
He took a sip—small, controlled—and set the glass back on the tray.
"Will you dance with me?" he asked Krista.
She put her own glass down without a word. "Always."
He led her onto the floor as the orchestra slid into a waltz.
"Do you know this one?" he asked.
"A little," she said. "Don't make me regret saying that."
He smiled and drew her into the frame. One, two, three. They found the rhythm. Once she settled, he gave her a gentle turn. Her dress flared in a crimson swirl, catching the light.
"You're doing great," he said.
"Liar," she laughed. "But a kind liar."
They stayed on the floor for two songs, maybe three. By the time he led her off, her cheeks were flushed, and she leaned into him, happy and breathless.
"Okay," she panted. "Confess."
"Confess what?"
"Something's wrong," she whispered. "You're having fun, but underneath it you're wired. This is me we're talking about. I know you."
"It's complicated."
"You don't trust yourself," she whispered.
The words landed too close to the mark.
He guided her to an empty table near the edge of the room. "I'm not hiding."
"You're absolutely hiding," she said, sliding into a chair. "From a girl."
He opened his mouth. She lifted a hand.
"Spare me," she said. "You told me you didn't plan to go home alone tonight. Rowan is over there practically devouring you with her eyes. This is not a shy problem."
"This is different," he said.
There was no way to explain the way their energies had snapped together without sounding unstable. Sometimes, when he brushed against someone whose internal frequency matched his a little too closely, the connection hummed and wouldn't let go. It wasn't compulsion. He couldn't make anyone do what they didn't already want. But he could nudge, tilt, heighten.
He hated that more than most things about himself.
"Hey," Chase said, dropping into a chair beside them. "What are we hiding from?"
"Cole's hiding from a girl," Krista announced.
Chase barked a laugh. "Our Cole? The world has turned upside down."
Krista ignored Cole's look. "He'll explain it later," she said. "Right?"
"Yeah," Cole said reluctantly. "Later."
"Promise," she pushed.
He gave a small nod.
Welp. That was that. If he promised her, he'd keep it. He looked up when someone spoke his name.
"Cole."
Rowan stood at the edge of the table holding two champagne flutes.
"Would you still like that drink?" she asked.
"Chase," Krista said, already standing. "Dance with me?"
Chase blinked once, then grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."
Krista stuck her tongue out at Cole as she walked away with Chase, then spun into the crowd, dress flaring. Cole couldn't help it—he smiled.
"Sure," he said to Rowan, motioning to the chair beside him.
She sat, then reached up and slid the ebony sticks from her hair. Her curls spilled down around her shoulders, a red wave catching the light. She shook them out with deliberate care, aware of his eyes on her.
"I've followed your career," she said, handing him one glass. "I imagine you hear that a lot."
"Often," he said, taking a sip. The champagne fizzed on his tongue.
"Purgatory must be a shock after DC," Rowan went on.
"It's slower," he said. "Not quieter."
"It has its charms," she said, letting her gaze drift slowly over him. Her hand settled on the table, fingers near his.
He let his hand stay where it was. Her presence vibrated through him like a low, steady hum. Euphoria, lust, that wild streak—everything swirled together in a cocktail he could taste without drinking.
"One of them is sitting across from me," she added.
He almost laughed. Instead, he let his fingers brush hers.
The feedback hit sharply and sweetly. Desire flared in her, bled into him, looped back. He reined it in before it tipped over.
"This many people," he said, "and you're bored?"
"These parties are always the same," Rowan said, lifting her glass. "Same speeches, same donors, same families pretending they're not devouring the town one property at a time." She took a drink. "I like… deviations."
"Dangerous word," he said.
"Fun word," she countered. "Would you like to dance?"
She slid the pins back into her hair, twisting the curls up again. The movement made the muscles in her shoulders and throat catch the light. After she was happy with the arrangement, she extended her hand.
"Alright," he said.
He stood, took her hand, and led her onto the floor.
They stepped into the frame. The moment his hand settled at her back, the hum between them sharpened into a clean current. The orchestra shifted into a foxtrot; their bodies fell into the pattern without effort.
She stayed closer than necessary.
He spun her, brought her back in, shifted them into a waltz as the song changed and never lost the rhythm. Their connection thrummed with every movement, calling and answering in time with the music.
At the end of the set, the final chord lingered in the dome.
Rowan rose onto her toes and kissed him.
Her hand slid behind his neck, pulling him down. His hand tightened at the small of her back. The kiss wasn't polite or curious. It was hungry. The room, the music, the other dancers—everything else blurred.
"I want you," she whispered against his mouth.
His skin felt too tight. Every nerve sang. If they were alone, if the world were simpler, he would have said yes on the spot.
A tap landed on his shoulder.
"May I cut in?" Jared asked, hand extended toward Rowan.
She pulled back, laughter in her eyes. "Mr. Constantine is quite the dancer," she said. "I need to catch my breath first." She glanced up at Cole. "Will you walk me to the bar?"
"Sure," Cole said.
Jared's disappointment flickered at the edge of Cole's senses—wounded pride more than jealousy. Cole filed it away with everything else and followed Rowan through the tangle of dancers.
They reached a passing server. Rowan took another glass; Cole did the same, more for camouflage than anything.
"I find most of these events awful," Rowan said, taking a sip. Her gaze never left his face. "The speeches, and handshakes. The men who think flattery is foreplay."
"Not usually my scene either," he said.
Her hand slid under the table edge and settled on his inner thigh.
"There are better ways to spend a night," she said. "And I think we have more in common than charity galas and small talk."
His pulse kicked. The contact sent another cascade of her excitement up his nerves. He let his hand rest over hers, thumb tracing the line of her knuckles once.
"Oh?" he asked.
"You're lucky we're surrounded by people," she murmured. "Or I'd have you on this table already."
He finished his champagne. The glass clinked softly when he set it down.
"How about we don't test my self-control in public," he said. "Can you drive?"
Rowan's smile turned sharper. "I can see to our arrangements."
She leaned in and kissed him again—slow, confident of the answer she'd already gotten—and for the first time that night, Cole stopped pretending he planned to go home alone.