Million Dollar Devil

31. Leo's POV

"Lillian," I murmur, her name heavy on my tongue, the syllables taste like something I shouldn't touch. I want to reach out to close the distance, but instead I watch her tense, feel the subtle shiver of her reaction. It twists something deep inside me, that familiar ache that's half guilt, half hunger.

Her voice cuts through the charged silence, sharp and commanding. "Stop," she says.

One word, but it lands like a hand to the chest. My jaw tightens, the muscles in my neck straining as I fight the urge to ignore it, to take one step closer. Every part of me coils, torn between restraint and the maddening pull she's become.

I know she's trying to reclaim control, trying to put space between us, and I want to dismantle it. I want to be closer. I want her gaze, her pulse, her attention, even the smallest acknowledgment of me. I want it all.

"I don't want to," she chokes out the words. She means it, or at least she wants to.

I shouldn't have brought Leah tonight. It was a decision made in the cold light of logic, a calculated move meant to keep up appearances, to remind myself and everyone else where I'm supposed to stand. Underneath the noise, the crowd, the polite conversation, all I could feel was Lillian pulling away from me, inch by inch, second by second.

I take a careful step closer, deliberate but slow, giving her every chance to pull away if she wants. But she doesn't. She stays rooted where she is, caught somewhere between resistance and surrender.

My hand lifts before I can think better of it. My fingers graze the small of her back, then drift higher until they find the nape of her neck. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, soft and tense all at once, and I linger there, memorizing the feeling. She holds herself perfectly still, pretending she's in control, but I can sense the betrayal.  I can see her heartbeat in her throat.

Instinct takes over. My fingers thread through her hair like it's mine to command, like a motion I've imagined more times than I should admit. I twist it into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck, tugging just enough to assert dominion, to force her head to tilt up, to fix her gaze on me. She stiffens, every micro-reaction magnified in my vision, every subtle movement feeding my obsession.

She's right there, within reach, and the distance between what I want and what I can have feels impossibly small.

Then her eyes meet mine. So wide, uncertain, furious, so heartbreakingly alive and in that instant, I realize how many lines I've drawn only to cross them myself. It's as if she sees it all. The lilies I chose for her at the Christmas gala, the raspberry danishes I bring every morning because I know they're her favorite, the way it tore me to shreds to walk away from her that day in the hallway, and the wildfire of jealousy that's raged through me tonight, watching her dance with everyone but me.

Every thought, every impulse, every moment I've tried to bury or ignore is laid bare in her gaze, and it hits me like a punch to the chest.

Looking into her eyes, I see what I've done. The confusion, the pull, the ache I've caused. Every cruel silence, every mixed signal. It's written in the way she looks at me now, like she's bracing for another wound.

And God, I want to fix it.

I don't know how to undo what I've broken, but I know how to hold her still long enough to make her see what I can't say.

So I do the only thing I can. The only thing that feels honest.

I lean in, my hand still tangled in her hair, holding her where I need her most. Right here, in front of me.

"Just one dance," I say.

It's barely a whisper, but it's everything: an apology, a plea, and a surrender.