Black velvet spills over my fingers as I duck my head and hasten toward the Morellis’ ballroom. Warmth from the lit candelabras slicks down my nape. More than once, I’m forced to smile prettily at people who were once regular guests at our BellaDonna hotels. They don’t smile back. Instead, their eyes narrow like I’m something worse than the dirt beneath their shoes, and I’m not even surprised when they all turn around to present me with their backs.

Hurt pricks my heart.

Gritting my teeth against the vulnerability, I spy the double doors that lead out of the mansion. Escape is in sight. Finally. Skirting between partygoers, I offer curt apologies that go completely unacknowledged. But just before I can make it to freedom, I stutter to a pitched halt like a pair of invisible hands have sunk their claws in my spine.

Tentatively, I step forward.

The fabric around my midsection pulls tight.

Gathering more material, I jerk hard on the train.

The strapless top slips down, and—

“Oh, God,” I gasp, frantically grabbing at the lowered neckline with white-knuckled fingers. I turn to identify the culprit, expecting to see a stray piece of furniture holding me back or maybe even Lucian himself refusing to let me leave until I’ve stayed the full hour as promised.

A butter-soft, black leather shoe pins me in place.

Indignation eviscerates all lingering hurt. I lower my free hand to my thighs and give a sharp tug on the velvet. That leather shoe only grinds down harder, crushing the expensive velvet and leaving no room for misinterpretation.

I’ve been trapped on purpose.

Slowly, as if I have all the time in the world, I lift my gaze past long, muscled legs encased in tailored black slacks. The gleam of a belt buckle is the first sign that this man—whoever the hell he is—didn’t adhere to the black-tie dress code. His jacket is casually unbuttoned, the matching black dress shirt beneath hugging a ridiculously broad chest. His jaw is square, firm. Chiseled with the sort of unmistakable artistry that promises a face worthy of the gods, and his doesn’t disappoint.

A full, sensual mouth made for sin. The straight bridge of a nose with nostrils that flare, ever so slightly, like he’s impatient for me to look him in the eye. Curious though I am about the color—blue, maybe, or as pitch black as the fabric molded to his solid frame—I avoid his gaze and take in the brown hair that’s been carelessly slicked back, as if he only just tamed the strands with his fingers. Flickering candlelight casts warmth and shadow across the bones of a face that could bring even the most stiff-backed woman down to her knees.

Beneath my velvet choker, my pulse skips a perilous beat.