He pulled Rowan upright again, spinning her once more so Rowan's back pressed to Nyx's front for a full rotation.
Nyx's arm banded across Rowan's waist like iron; his other hand lifted Rowan's arm higher, forcing her to arch. Nyx's lips found the shell of Rowan's ear again.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
"Say the word. I'll let go. Walk away. Leave you alone forever." A beat. "Or … keep dancing. Keep hating me. Keep feeling my hands on you until you can't pretend anymore."
Rowan's body trembled once, violently, before she locked it down.
She turned her head just enough that their mouths were a breath apart.
"I hate you," she said again, slower this time. But the words came out husky. Broken. And her hips shifted, barely perceptible, pressing back against Nyx's thigh.
Nyx's smile widened.
"Liar," he breathed.
The music swelled toward the final chord.
Nyx dipped Rowan one last time: deep, possessive, holding her suspended while the room watched.
And when he brought her back up, lips brushing Rowan's jaw in a ghost of a kiss, he whispered:
"One week, Doctor. That's all I need."
Rowan opened her mouth, whether to curse, to shove, to finally break free, when a smooth, cultured voice cut through the space between them like a blade wrapped in silk.
"May I cut in?"
Ryan Ravencroft stepped onto the floor without waiting for permission.
He moved with the practiced ease of someone who had danced in ballrooms since he could walk: tuxedo impeccable, silver cufflinks catching light, smile perfect and predatory.
His eyes flicked first to Nyx, cold, assessing, then settled on Rowan with open, unapologetic hunger.
He drank her in: the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, the way the black dress clung to every curve after the close hold of the waltz.
His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the long line of thigh exposed by the slit: possessive, greedy, as though Nyx's hands had only warmed her up for him.
Nyx's grip on Rowan tightened instinctively; fingers dug into silk at her waist.
Ryan ignored it.
He extended a hand toward Rowan, palm up, smile widening into something almost charming if it weren't so calculated.
"Dr. Blackwood, isn't it?" he said smoothly.
"I've heard so much about the woman who saved my stepbrother's life. The least I can do is offer you a proper dance … away from … family complications."
His eyes slid to Nyx then: brief, mocking. A clear message: Step aside. She's not yours to keep.
Rowan stiffened in Nyx's hold. Her gaze darted between them: stepbrothers, both Ravencrofts, both dangerous in different ways.
Nyx's arm felt like iron; Ryan's offered hand looked like a trap wrapped in courtesy.
The music had shifted to a slower number: another waltz, intimate and lingering. Couples reformed around them, but the three of them stood frozen in a small, charged triangle at the center of the floor.
Nyx's jaw clenched. He didn't release Rowan. Instead, he turned Rowan slightly, angling her body so Rowan's back pressed more firmly against his broad chest: claiming, shielding.
"She's dancing with me," Nyx said, voice low and lethal. "Find your own partner, Ryan."
Ryan's smile didn't falter. He stepped closer, close enough that Rowan could smell his cologne: expensive, woody, aggressive.
"Come now, Nyx," he said, using the name like a weapon.
"Don't be greedy. The doctor looks … flushed. Perhaps she'd like a change of partner. Someone who doesn't smell like whiskey and bad decisions."
Rowan's eyes flashed. She finally wrenched her hand free from Nyx's and stepped sideways, out of both their reaches, chest heaving.
"I'm not a prize to be passed between you," she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. Her gaze swept from Nyx's possessive glare to Ryan's hungry smile.
"And I'm done dancing."
She turned on her heel: black dress swirling, slit flashing one last time, and strode toward the edge of the floor, heels clicking like gunfire. Heads turned; whispers followed.
Nyx watched her go: jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to drag Rowan back.
Ryan watched too: eyes dark, lips curving in quiet satisfaction.
"She'll come around," he murmured, just loud enough for Nyx to hear.
"They always do. And when she does … I'll be waiting."
Nyx turned slowly, eyes narrowing on his stepbrother.
"Touch her," he said quietly, "and I'll ruin you. You. Personally."
Ryan's smile widened: challenging, unafraid.
"Promises, promises."
He inclined his head once, mocking courtesy, then melted back into the crowd, leaving Nyx alone in the center of the emptying dance floor.
The music played on.
Nyx watched Rowan go: chest tight, whiskey still burning low in his veins, the ghost of Rowan's body heat lingering on his skin.
He wanted to follow. Wanted to chase her down the corridor, pin her against the wall, finish what the dance had started.
But he didn't get the chance.
Two black-suited security operatives materialized at his sides before he could take a single step: Grayson on his left, another nameless Ravencroft guard on his right. They didn't touch him.
They didn't need to. Their presence was the cage: broad shoulders blocking the path forward, earpieces glinting, eyes flat and professional.
"Mr. Ravencroft," Grayson said quietly, voice carrying the weight of Everett's orders. "Your grandfather requests your presence in the private suite. Immediately."
Nyx's laugh was short, bitter, edged with fury.
"Requests," he echoed. "Right."
He tried to sidestep anyway: sharp pivot, oxfords silent, but the second guard shifted, mirroring his movement. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.
Lexi appeared then, pushing through the lingering dancers with Jade half a step behind. Her red dress was rumpled now, lipstick slightly smudged from earlier champagne and laughter.
She stopped short when she saw the security wall, eyes narrowing.
"Now you're caged, Nyx," Lexi said, voice low but carrying. She glanced at the guards, then back at Nyx. "They're not even pretending anymore."
Nyx's hands curled into fists at his sides: nails biting palms hard enough to leave marks.
"Fucking whores," he spat, the word aimed at the guards, at his family, at the entire glittering prison he'd been born into.
His voice cracked on the last syllable, not with tears, but with raw, boiling rage. "All of them. Selling me out for board approval and quarterly reports. Pathetic."
Grayson didn't flinch.
He simply inclined his head toward the private corridor that led to the family suites: eighty stories up, away from the party, away from Rowan, away from any chance of pursuit tonight.
"Mr. Ravencroft," he repeated. "This way."
Nyx stared at him for a long beat: eyes dark, burning, then flicked his gaze back toward the exit Rowan had disappeared through.
The doors were already closing; security discreetly stationed there too. No way out. Not tonight.
He exhaled once: sharp, defeated, furious.
"Fine," he said, voice low and venomous. "Lead the way. But tell Grandfather this: the second I'm out of whatever detox hell he's shipping me to? I'm coming back for what's mine."
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't need to.
Lexi stepped closer, brushing fingers against Nyx's arm in silent support.
Jade stayed a pace back, jaw tight, eyes scanning the guards like he was calculating how many he could take before they dragged them all away.
Nyx straightened his blazer one last time: sharp lapels, rolled sleeves, armor intact, and walked forward.
The guards flanked him instantly.
The corridor swallowed them: dark marble, recessed lighting, the distant hum of the party fading behind thick doors.
Caged.
For now.
But Nyx Ravencroft had never stayed locked up long.
And when the door finally opened again, whether tomorrow at dawn for Connecticut, or seven days from now when he clawed his way free, he would be coming back.
For Rowan.
For revenge.
For the fall he'd promised himself.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss.
And somewhere in the penthouse above, Everett Ravencroft waited: cane tapping once against marble, like a king who believed he still controlled the board.
He would learn soon enough.
He didn't.