Chapter 6 – The Alpha’s Dance

(Jasmine's POV)

I should have moved.

I should have walked away, ignored the weight of his stare, the way the entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.

But I didn't.

The moment his silver eyes locked onto mine, it was like the world had shifted, pulling me into his orbit without permission.

And then—he moved.

Each step was slow, deliberate, predatory, as he closed the distance between us. The guests parted around him as if drawn by an invisible force, their gazes flickering between us in quiet anticipation.

By the time he reached me, I felt trapped, every nerve in my body humming with something I didn't understand.

He extended a hand.

"May I?"

His voice was deep, smooth—dangerous in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.

I hesitated. Every part of me screamed that this was a bad idea.

But my hand was already moving, my fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm.

His grip tightened. Possessive. Commanding.

And then, he pulled me into him.

The moment our bodies met, I felt it—the heat of him, the quiet strength coiled beneath his suit, the way his touch sent something sharp and thrilling through my veins.

One hand settled firmly against the small of my back, pressing me closer, while the other held mine in a grip that was both gentle and unyielding.

His breath, warm and teasing, ghosted against my skin as he leaned in.

"You must like attention," he murmured, his tone edged with amusement.

A small smirk tugged at my lips. "Is that your way of telling me I have it?"

His silver eyes gleamed with something dark, something teasing, something dangerous. "You had it the moment you walked in."

His thumb traced my waist, slow and deliberate, like he was testing the feel of me beneath his fingertips.

"Why are you here?"

The way he said it—low, intrigued, but knowing—sent a shiver rippling down my spine.

"I—" My breath hitched as he twirled me effortlessly, pulling me flush against him again before I could gather my thoughts. "I received an invitation."

His silver gaze flickered with something undecipherable. "Did you?"

"Yes."

His smirk was slow, taunting, like he didn't believe me.

"And you just… decided to come?"

I forced myself to hold his stare. "Would it be a problem if I did?"

His grip on my waist tightened, fingers pressing into the fabric of my dress.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, his voice like a slow-burning fire.

"Why?"

"Because," he exhaled, his hand gliding up my back, his fingertips grazing my bare skin, "you don't know what you've walked into."

A shiver raced through me.

The way he touched me—it was casual, effortless, but filled with purpose. Like he was testing me, waiting for a reaction, waiting to see if I would yield.

I wasn't used to this.

This undeniable pull. This raw, electric awareness.

His scent wrapped around me—smoke, cedarwood, and something darker, something forbidden.

"You seem very concerned about my presence," I mused, tilting my head slightly. "Should I be flattered?"

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

"Perhaps."

His hand slid lower, just above the curve of my hip, his fingers barely pressing into the fabric of my dress.

The way he moved was intimate, but more than that—he was claiming space.

He wasn't just leading the dance.

He was controlling it.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured.

"You keep saying that," I whispered back, my breath unsteady. "And yet, you haven't let me go."

His smirk faltered, something flickering behind his silver eyes.

"And if I don't?" he asked, voice deep and almost teasing, but I could sense something beneath it—something possessive.

I parted my lips to answer, but the words died on my tongue.

Because in that moment, he did something that sent fire through my veins.

He leaned in—slowly, deliberately—his lips brushing the curve of my jaw.

Not kissing.

Just a whisper of contact. A tease. A warning.

His lips lingered there, barely touching, sending a pulse of heat down my spine.

My breath hitched.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured.

His fingers slid up my back again, his palm spanning my entire waist, making it impossible to think of anything but the heat of his touch.

But I didn't tell him to stop.

Because I didn't want him to.

"You never told me your name," he said, his thumb dragging over the pulse point on my wrist, feeling how erratic it had become beneath his touch.

I exhaled shakily, my fingers tightening in his grasp.

"Jasmine."

His silver eyes darkened, his fingers flexing against my waist, his grip almost claiming.

"Jasmine," he repeated, his tone lower now, more reverent.

The way he said my name sent a slow, deliberate fire through my veins.

"Jasmine," he murmured again, his lips so close to my ear I felt the warmth of every syllable.

"You should stop looking at me like that," I whispered, barely able to breathe.

"Like what?" he asked, his hand brushing my bare shoulder, fingertips trailing the curve of my collarbone.

"Like you already own me," I murmured.

His smirk returned, slow, taunting, wickedly amused.

"You keep saying that," he whispered, his voice like a dark promise, "and yet, you're still in my arms."

My breath caught.

The final notes of the song played, but neither of us moved.

His silver eyes held mine, heavy with something unspoken.

And I knew—this was only the beginning.